The first conversation we had
was in seventh grade P.E. class.
It was laced with talks
of our unrealized love of escapism,
and how we had saw each other on the bus.
Mama's boys sure seem to sniff
one another out like lost puppy dogs.
We were clinging for warmth in those hormonal hallways.

You had a dog named Tyler,
and that always made me laugh inside.
So many look-a-like jokes and
misinterpreted commands and calls.
I remember his death and I
remember his absence so well now.
I never know how to console you, but I guess
you didn't really need it. We were both numb.

A numb only the fatherless feel
when they search for a reason with the void.
A loss of confidence and for words
that ushers in those awkward silences.
We should have had a voice to tell us:
"You're remarkable, you know that?"
But instead we got misunderstood glances,
and we had to be that voice for so many others.