The features that distinguish the person you used to be and who
you are today are becoming clearer, although I no longer remember what
caused you to change.  But I can still recall that distant time when
you were more than just a vacant shell. I can see the woods where
we used to explore, can hear you explain why
the grass is green and the sky is blue, and how

to follow a ball with your eyes to catch it. Now, all you’ve taught me is how
to survive on a diet of forced smiles and fake laughs, and that who
you are dies when you have nothing to live for.  And I wonder why
we are no longer enough to sustain you.  And I wonder what
you tell the bottle that you can’t tell us.  If I’d known where
you were going, I would have said: when

you leave, please do so quietly - I don’t want to know when
you’re gone.  But my tongue didn’t know how
to wrap itself around those words, or didn’t know where
to find the courage concealed in their syllables.  And who’s
to say if it would have eased the pain?  I want to stop asking what
I could have done to save you or why

you’ve buried your secrets in the dirt of discontent.  All those pesky why’s
that still hover - could I even carry the weight of their answers, when
my fingers cannot stop pointing toward what
is no longer there? Sometimes in my head I imagine how
you would defend yourself, when you’re just a ghost who
is dragging his shadow toward Lethe, or where-

ever your destination lies.  And now, where
you stand before me, you seem to resent my silent why,
your eyes defeated but still defiant, as if to retort: who
you remember is fiction. But how could you say that, when
that implies that you are somebody now?  Sometimes I’m awed by how
you destroy yourself just to hide behind the ruins, rather than face what

drives your self-destruction.  And sometimes I wonder if you realize what
you’ve lost.  And if you wanted it back, would you know where
to find it?  And then I think about how
you’re not here enough to care, anyway, so why
should I?  So I give up.  Now, when
they ask me about you, I’ll reply: oh, he’s just somebody who

I used to know. And I’ll no longer wonder how you are or what
you’re doing - who you are I no longer know, and where
you hide I no longer seek. But if you want to return, I won’t care why - I’ll just ask: *when?