I have a friend who’s here, but not. Who’s clear. Who’s near. Who’s dear. But not.
I think of this friend every now and again. His words, his thoughts, his work permeates my world. But not.
I know he is happy. So I do not wish him more, in words. But in my heart, I wish him more than he knows.
We once had an argument over a tea cup. But not.
And the shattered pieces of that tea cup scattered our hearts.
Strewn, though I meagerly attempt to pluck the pieces, they seem hidden beyond my grasp. But not.
