I’m here, at your writing
desk. Two weeks after
pain handed

me news of your death. I’m
using your favorite pen. The
one that birthed

so many poems, so many pages
of thoughts & inspiration. Your
mother let me in. Still

crying. I hugged her as strongly
as I could, like you used to. As
I write these words,

anger fills the pen. Why did
you steal your life from
living? I relate

to you because you know that
I suffer with the same
disease.

Depression is hard, I know. But
you could’ve turned to me
instead of sitting

in the garage, letting car exhaust fill
your lungs. Damn it! You should’ve
known I could’ve helped. But

now what’s left, an absent
friendship, conversational
memories. Remember

when we were young, we’d
debate Bruce Lee movies? He kicked
the hell out of Kareem’s chest,

& Chuck Norris was just a memory
after Bruce left his neck undone
like a torn piece of paper. As

we got older, we both changed directions
in music. Got into jazz at the same
moment. You were

‘Trane’s reflection, Miles, mine. It’s funny
how “A Love Supreme”
& “Kind of Blue”

fit into my life so sharply right now. I listen
to ‘Trane’s horn & break
my hands

on concrete tears that fall from
reddened eyes. Miles’
modal tone

reminds me of your haunting voice. I woke
up last night. Dreamt you
were telling

me you were okay. Damn a dream! Asking
questions without answers,
like walking

in circles without a purpose. I am broken, man. I
need to head home. I’ll hug
your mother, again. Be

back soon, lending my soul to your space. Next
time, I won’t be as angry,
I promise. I miss you.