There are some friends whom, despite minimal contact and oceans of separation, would fit right back in to our lives, as if they just temporarily left the couch for a coffee refill. And when you get to be in my station in life where good friends come rare and far too few in between, to lose one, temporarily or permanently, is tragic beyond words.
I have recently lost a friend due to a reckless outburst, and it was a farewell full of knives. We used to have a little space in the internet, and now it's just a dark empty place full of bad blood. I think about it all the time, all those years of being sure and wrong, of how we knew so little of each other, or maybe too much -- to have known which self-destruct buttons to push and push it with all of our dead weight we did.
Who knew it was a risk - those silent years? We slept soundly in our little cocoons, trusting we'd both wake up with wings. Well, someone woke up as a butterfly to live by day, and the other, a moth, to dance by night.
(Originally written Feb. 17. 2006)
(**painting: Death's Head Moth by Vincent Van Gogh)
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