On April 2nd, 2016, I received some very bad news. An old, old friend – and a large part of my (misspent) youth – had died suddenly from back surgery complications. We’re not young anymore, but we’re not old either, and this was a blow to the group of us that lived that era.

Most of us are still reeling, quietly, in moments when the truth hits: there will be other losses. BH was the first. He will not be the last.

When we started trading memories, pictures, and stories, the scenes that flashed into my mind became the first part of the following poem. I’ve been trying to write it since BH’s death; the emotions were there, but the words weren’t. I’m not sure that it’s completely right, not yet, but it’s true. My truth, through my eyes, from that period of my life, and the people that shared it.

We were young,
on our own wild arrogance,
we prowled dark streets,
smoky clubs,
the corners of our own lives.

We built ourselves
word by word,
note by note,
from stories and songs
you to me,
me to her,
her to them.

Stories end,
songs fade,
youth vanishes.
Some lives end,
the rest go on as best we can.
We change,
not really understanding
how we became

When we see the children,
our lips form smiles
as dark chocolate.
Because we know.
“That was us,

~for Mopey~


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