Today is my best friend’s birthday and the anniversary of the day he left. I’ve missed him every day since.
There are some days when the light is right or a shade too dark or a cloud too large or too small or seeing a bird closeup or a song we held or a song I do not know or a certain shirt or when the night is very large or the day very heavy or the moon so fat and quiet or loud or when the skyline curses the drought or the traffic lights pray for the change that ceaselessly comes to stop when the words in my heart click randomly into the wrong order the same wrong order they sometimes click into when the moon is fat and quiet or fat or loud or the libraries sorrowful and motion and movement become the same as stillness and your face appears–your face like some enormously round balloon rises over the rooftop enveloping all I can see enveloping my horizon line engulfing every small swallow in my flock as if you were an Eastern god of many arms built to hold my many birds built to hold every bird that my body is made of in the iron softness that is your precious and laughing memory which I sometimes fear I still hold too close to the heat of my body and those bones of yours I do not know if they will hold still around my many tender hearts that beat beneath my tiny feathered breast or if they will squeeze every song my bodies have built until there is only the sound of crushing heard inside of me just like when you dressed yourself in the bottom of a Texas lake tightened with the sparkling promise of what the next world might bring to you.
This thing in me that pushes me to move out of one day and into the next sometimes takes skill. Takes balance. Takes rolling forward while holding fire in one outstretched arm in order to stay warm while drinking down a supper of gasoline to kill the hunger.
It is hard work to win. To battle oneself and win. And to battle oneself and win again. For one is always battling oneself. The rooster at dawn unswallowing the egg of the sun for us to carry. It is hard work to carry that sun that warmth that infinite ball of heart and life when there are so many other things in our arms intended to carry us to the bottom of someplace else.
What a beautiful chemistry love is. What chemicals rush through me. I am pointless scales when it comes to you and the remembering of how much you meant to me. A balance of peace and rage and anger and acceptance all held by how much your laughter your curly hair your freckled forehead is missed.
This will be how it will always be. As sure as lungs pump and children cry and birds perch. The cricket of you shall always chirp in my heart. Sometimes softly sometimes avalanche. The bees kiss a flower and move to the next one and whether the gardens they have loved fade or are remembered–every one of them–matters not as the buzzing in their bodes propel them through the humming bars of the sun.
–April 18th, 2013