A friend of mine died
in a kind of myth.
No, not a kind of myth
the story where all the words are true
but few of them are fact.
He and I used to talk
about this and that things.
He could talk over me
and his words reached through me.
I loved his talk.
His better conversation was always in his pause.
Somewhere along the way he had mastered silence.
He could enter himself and stay there for hours
and never leave his partner alone.
Wherever your talk was going to take you
his deep, happy, eloquent silence,
like brass with cymbals
that he was already there,
there where you were going
and he was only waiting for you to catch up to him.
so you could see the place he could see
in just the way he could see it.
He could wait for your to apprehend him
and that was the most I could do most times.
For most of the time I did no more than catch up, apprehend,
never ingest, never comprehend.
I miss him,
have missed him,
will miss him,
will never stop missing him.
I miss most of all the pauses
in his deep and eloquent silence, where he would go ahead
and wait for me to catch him.
I was weighted down with words,
which were the sign of my importance
so much I dragged the true myth down to mere fact.
I will miss his deep, bearish, loving, sweet silence and try to eumualte him, if I may