An Open Letter to Wes

To Wes;

It has been

a rough year without you.

A storm of indecision and anxiety.

I skipped my last period the other day

hoping to find some sort of comfort

similar to the one I found with you.

I wanted to drive to your house

and lay in the soft sunlight on your bed

and read beside you one more time,

just to feel two people breathe together.

I want the times back

before I found you passed out

from a night of Xanax and vodka.

Before I called the police

over 2,000 miles away

because you were staring

at the angel of death,

born from your own hand;

a small red pin on an infinite map.

I want the boy who ate more Mexican food

than I thought possible,

the boy who turned the rundown common area

of our school in the middle of neither here nor there

into a lively marketplace of ideas and harbor of dreams.

You have to read this

because the rains don’t come softly

and your dedication has been torn out

of the front of my very first poetry book.

You have to read this

because that boy is still there;

just very far away.

Beyond Boston.

Maybe beyond anyplace I can reach.

But I’ll be waiting here;

a handful of stamps

and fresh pens.