(The appropriated version of a poem found in a weevil drilled notebook from 2003. Updated to befit the day’s resonance. I have not met him for many years now, but I just sent him a FB request).
Would come home, back then,
From work on weekends
And call me:
What’s left of my last stretch, I was
What you were left of,
Last years at school.
Told me, who would wife me best
And teased me no end,
Now nothing remains of days without ends:
Nothing holds ground of
Me and of you.
Jobber, now; gone
Faded into a world of one’s glory.
Couldn’t even pee on your own,
Hanging clumsily on to a half used Gin
With a smudged tuft, much like TinTin:
School years, memories ago.
Will return one day, soon, perhaps,
From an eye-watering sunset
And act mucho, like you do,
When you return from guilt sometimes.
With nothing to talk, with nothing to say,
(Like breaking out from a life sentence) the world has changed
So much. And as such
Those you said would wife me
Bear other people’s genes
In far away lands from where our
Sweet memories sing in what’s left of
Their memory — like a drunk youth’s audition.