“My guinea pig has lice,”

she says, which means

a veterinarian and an

ivermectin prescription,

Google says, which means

a drive too long for the

ailing minivan, the

check engine light says,

which means the mechanic

again and time off work and

a loan, my account balance says,

but she held him close

when COVID closed the world

and she could not hug

friends, this warm little creature

cooing on her chest, nibbling

hay as she Zoomed with

her teacher who would die,

so many would die,

“I’m sorry,” I say,

“we’ll help him.”

Freshwater pearls in a tricolor string.

Yes, I’m the girl he’s buying the ring for.

Pearls are the last thing you put on

and the first thing you take off.

Funny to think I’ll have a stone on my hand,

then come summer, a silver wedding band.

’Til then, I wear three colors of pearls on a string,

it’s hard to believe that steady girl is me.

I’ve never had nothing so nice before.

How nice, how very nice, just to be looked after.

My mom watches my wrist, the pearls, when I’m getting ready,

and whatever the look is in her eyes, I don’t know it.

“He’s a good one, Mom.” Then, “I’m sorry, Mom.”

Through tears, “Well, who do you think prayed him into your life?”

Pearls lose their luster through contact with skin.

It’s best to store them in a silk pouch.

Dear Friend,

As I sit under the vast canopy of my night sky, my pen hesitates above this blank page. I often wonder about the world that cradles you, half a world away. The ink bleeds a little on the paper, mirroring the way thoughts of you have gently seeped into the corners of my being.

We have never met, yet your words have become the silent whisper in my every day. The streets I walk, the people I see – they all seem to hold a piece of the stories you've shared. I find myself pausing at the marketplace, smiling at a stranger, imagining if you would've noticed the same peculiar smile that I did.

Our worlds are different, as are our skies. My days are painted with the broad strokes of a sun that sets as yours awakes. And yet, in your letters, I find a familiarity that transcends these physical disparities. The emotions you weave through your words resonate with a part of my soul I never knew was seeking a companion.

You write about the rain that falls in your city, the way it paints everything a shade darker. I imagine you, watching the droplets race each other down your window, as I often watch the sun paint the evening sky in hues of orange and purple. In these moments, I am there with you, a silent observer in your world.

Though our lives are a patchwork of disparate threads, we have managed to unite around one common strand. You with your stories of packed streets and dark nights; me with my wide-open spaces and an unfathomably large sky. We have found comfort in the empathy of a stranger by sharing our joys, anxieties, and ordinary moments.

Sometimes, I lie awake at night, your latest letter clutched in my hand, and I stare at the stars. I try to map out the constellations you've described, but they are foreign to my sky. It's in these moments that the distance between us becomes tangible, the miles stretching out like an unbridgeable chasm.

Yet, even as this thought lingers, a comforting feeling washes over me. It is the thought of your words, your existence – a reminder that across this vast, incomprehensible space, there is another soul that resonates with mine.

Tonight, as I write back to you, I wonder if the stars that watch over me whisper secrets to the ones that guard your sleep. In this thought, there is a poetic justice, a connection that defies the logic of distance and time.

So, as I seal this letter, a vessel of my thoughts and a bridge over our distance, I find myself asking a question that seems to hold more than just curiosity. A question that perhaps, in its simplicity, captures the essence of our unlikely friendship:

Do We See the Same Stars?

With love,

Your Friend

making out on the basement couch is worthy of subterfuge and celebration

and it's death. the ghost of innocence watches me from the corner of the room

lamenting.

graduation, the end of high school. it's death of all your circumstantial friendships and the way the sidewalk feels under your feet in your neighborhood

it's getting drunk and confessing things we shouldn't have

done in the first place. it's an epitaph for something that's already dead

nostalgia is a sister to grief. the past is dead

that boy from summer camp bleached his hair blonde and shaved it off

the cells were already dead, right?

these people at the party you argue with while you kill your liver with alcohol

they'll never call you back

they slip out of the room prematurely. the night takes them unannounced like death

even the paper i write on, the tree someone killed to make it. i ruin it with ink, it's tainted even in death.

the grease on my fingertips erodes the keyboard. but the apple juice i choked out and spit

still makes the keys stick.

i guess there's something immortal about that.

Everything is a kind of dying

even me

I'm kind of dying

like a flower who has been picked

and discarded

to slowly wither away

Everything

even me

is

dying

these may be the last words I write

this may be the end

now I lay me down

my pen my bed this sloppy kiss

an eighteen wheeler roars blindly through

the tunnel of love

to spin wildly on an unnamed patch of ooze

taking out everything in its way

there is a last time for everything

pour me another

one for the road

here's looking at you

here's looking at you dead

Everything is a kind of dying.

That's the beauty of it.

There is no escape,

Only the beginning, middle and end

Like a book or movie

Like a fly or a coffin which deteriorates till it rots itself to shards beneath the earth.

Everything must die.

One day you will be a shroud and as will I.

We are like the sunflower seed that sprouts and blooms and wilts

And the rain that comes and goes and comes anew again.

We will be and we will not and this, my dear,

Is the story.

It's how it has been and will be.

This, my dear, is what we are made of.

What dreams are made of.

Why do I waste my time worrying about things that hardly matter?

Why do I waste it with overwhelming terror for things that I only imagine,

Dreams which seek only to destroy when

There are so many prettier things to see?

Everything is a kind of dying and

So am I.

As are you, friend, stranger, poet by being existent alone.

Let yourself be.

Let yourself heal.

Let yourself rest.

Let yourself dream.

Let yourself breathe.

A breath exhaled is vanquished

It's gone for ever more

A fleeting, brief existence

In life's ever changing score

A bud begins to open

It blooms and then it fades

A violent burst of colour

That rapidly degrades

A seed takes root, a lamb is birthed

A coral's gametes spawn

But every infant's dying

From the moment it is born

Cells are shed, bark is dropped

Baby teeth come loose

The same is true for bird and beast

From dinosaur to goose

Rocks erode, glaciers melt

Dark clouds drop their rains

Even empires rise and fall

Like blood flows through their veins

Stars are born from clouds of dust

They burn their white hot core

Then go supernova

And turn to dust once more

Yet each day dawns anew

And the earth turns on it's axis

the only certainties in life

are death and paying taxes

Everything is kind of dying.

From the initial point dividing.

Factors fracture faculties fixed,

Light expansions cyclically twist.

Earned in being,

Sparked alight,

Shooting from the darkest night,

Every expanding ebb and flow,

Down through all the rabbit holes.

Courses cursed and minds collide

Crushing indifference founding

Fundamental divides.

Spinning orb a give and take

On until volcanos wake.

Guilty masses ill at ease,

Stagnant distractions

Numbing squeeze.

Debt accrues with the loss of past

Mother natures weakened grasp

While now

Everything is kind of dying

But touched with wisdom

Dawns enlightening.

To have lived would mean

An end was plausible,

So realize it now

Life is possible.