My Samson

I need you to reassure me that everything is okay.
I want you singing to me,
or drive me around aimlessly in your SUV we named after a story book horse.
We talked to her when we had car trouble,
like the soothing tone of our voices could do better than a mechanic.

But you are not here
you haven't been for 8 years.

I couldn't kill,
and you couldn't fight,
the wrath of suburbia.

I remember when we would lie in your bed,
listening to Tori Amos,
and we would share our
diagnoses.
I would read you my poetry
you played the piano.

I'm bi-polar,
you were manic.

Little mirrors of one another,
each the base to the others acid.

Our love worked so well.

But eventually the straws of
-suburbia, stress, apathy, feigned nonchalance, among other things-
broke you
and you left:
New York
bright lights
New people.
You gave me Under the Pink,
and rode off on Black Beauty.

I just want you to know,
I understand.
We don't talk anymore.
Silence is heavy with patience.

Last I heard from you
you had bells in your voice,
You write music, and you sound better than ever-
I am happy for you.

I wanted you to know that no matter how little we talk
I still love you.
You were the first person to listen.
You were the first man who loved me
without tainting that love with awkward sexual advances.

I understand that it is too painful to talk to me,
because I belong in that place you fled from.
That's okay,
but when you left,
I sniped a lock of you hair for a souvenir,
and I slipped a piece of my heart into your bag.

We both know I am too vain to be forgotten..