When my friend’s father died
When we were eleven,
I felt sad for him, I could never tell him how.
Three times, years later, I tried to speak,
But, what I felt, I guess, doesn’t matter now.
He wore a dirty pullover with college stripes,
Blue and maroon around the V-shaped neck.
Life was complicated with your
Perhaps, more complicated than the first time I kissed.
A week later, you were back at the desk,
As if nothing had passed
You returned to some book you had.
I watched you reading, perhaps I sighed at the
Thought of a life without your dad.
The vision is hazy afterwards: I don’t
Remember what passed. Did I tell you something:
Something stupid you tell at loss?
Most probably I didn’t. Perhaps, “So, hi” is what I said
Hands in pockets in the sixth Grade.