and by that river
i could shed my tears,
in isolation,
with no prying eyes.

down by the river,
away from the chaotic,
mesh of human flesh
that swarmed every pocket
of the University Campus,
and there I drew into myself
the beauty around me.

to remind me
of the sound of it,
the smell of it.

down by the river
i found peace, silence,
a refuge from the storm.

last Sunday I returned.
returned to the river that has ran through,
and by,
almost my entire life.
by that river I am home.
and when all the swirl
and burl of it all,
of the grief,
the sadness,
the hope,
the tears, the fears,
when it was all too much,
I found solace.

there you lay Tim,
fearing deaths grip upon your soul,
hooked up to this and that,
and wishing you had died.
it was a gut ripping,
literally for you.
valiantly, after you’d broken through
that barrier of terror
at having lived through it,
you began to fight
the dying of the light.

the base sensation
you had little tolerance for,
it washed your every pore,
and addled your mind,
for a time.

and
you began to rage
at close of day,
as if it may be your last.
you feared death,
right up until the end.

did I at all ease your journey?

I hope so Tim,
I so wanted to ease that final walk you must take alone.

know this too Tim,
even if I move on,
and even if I speak from the heart of our experiences,
and rage against your shitey crap you pulled, please know this,

I love you just as much as I ever did,
perhaps more. Regardless of it all you know,
I do, I did, and I always will.

I need to tell the truth,
and try to understand it all.
therefore
I must be myself,
and tell my tales,
and nothing I say
you know
Time can diminish you.
for we are all flawed you know.
I told you that,
but I don’t know if you were listening.

when I went back to that place last Sunday,
as the tears ran down my face,
and the sun shone,
and there I was,
once again, in that magical place.
and I thanked it.

I have come to see that I
perhaps
dwell overmuch on your death,
and I have failed to celebrate your life.

perhaps
I can try to capture you,
and all your Persian flaws.
I suppose,
as a butterfly preserved under glass,
one can never capture and preserve the living,
breathing, soul of you.

and so
I suppose
you are always with me on these walks.

and
when
I have the desire to dive off the path into the unknown,
you are there,

and I go where you could not.

and I guess
back then
I came back,
and carried upon my clothes the scent of the river and the woods,

and perhaps
clinging to my clothes I brought you back some of the rivers magic.

there is a cycle
to grief,
and lately I’ve been missing you.
yet when I was in that place,
it freed in me a thing I didn’t know I’d kept inside – and I released it.
and I will always miss you. Always.