Dear John,

I’m afraid to admit I forget how your struggle alone should remind me that death itself is a catalyst for changing life on a whim.

I chose prose instead of careers, idle daydreams over real toil.

I do not regret fleeing labor, as your pain made passion my goal.

It’s embarrassing doubting these words, every time I seek motivation from an outside source reading excerpts of a gift so few would enjoy – or appreciate and acknowledge as fair, like the ways I’m forced to relinquish each moment we’d spend trading reasons for moving past how we eventually split.

The irony of trying your best is a man whose curse was his blessing, believing cash your vocation and passing young despite hope.

I’m not that good of a worker, and lazier still than you hated – calling me out on my bullshit even though your anger was fair.

You ended each phrase with a smile, your freckles bright when you giggled, always mentioning pain was a virtue as you wished my views quickly changed.

At your bedside, your mother had asked if I’d be there after you left us, to which you replied how we’re different though friendship will linger if true.

She said of course I’d be “weird”- after all, I was always writer, and you a skeptical genius who understood what hurt made us tough.

We survived a similar rearing, a trial by fire of loneliness – opposites in ways that were obvious, kindred through means we endured.

I recall that summer distinctly – the one just before you had vanished, when the weeks dragged on playing music and video games signified cause.

Your disease was never that cancer but the plague of a world begging jadedness, and its only cure was enjoying another night laughing loudly with friends.

We ate so much we got sick – burgers and fries before nachos. Then brownies and sundaes at parlors which closed not long after that.

We wandered the parking lots driving, doing circles and chasing new sunsets as the dusk set in over strip malls where again I might see your face – waiting for me by your car, electronics in hand as you tampered with a gadget you swore was important and anything else was just trash.

You strived for the promise of “soon” or tomorrow being mankind’s constant with potential mounting towards progress you’d agreed was faith worth belief.

Our last conversation between us had me mentioning God every minute, telling you none of this mattered except Him where your soul would soon go – high above me near angels in heaven, mocking every choice I would muddle with women, jobs, and then poems I suspect you read to this day.

See, John, that season persists – for me it never quite ended. I’m 20 and reading bad comics, afraid no girl may appear – not 33, married and scared, scouring lies for some meaning in the midst of an ongoing virus that’s ravaged what world we had known.

You insisted I’d find my true love, though she wouldn’t be quite what I’d pictured. That joke perhaps was your funniest – she’s here now, and better than dreamed.

I’m certain you sent her while watching, seeing me beg as I stumbled through relationship to wayward relationship where parts of my being stay lost.

How I wish I could tell you much more, but then what’s the point of expressing how your entire journey inspired me inadvertently while dealing with grief – praying silently under my wails, thinking back to times staying innocent, held inside me shielded from numbers or statistics claiming your fate.

The purpose of art is reflection, to perceive how mirrors are fluid and shift with age through experience to encapsulate stories long gone.

This letter’s need is just that – allowing me space to recall you, to honor and convey whose legacy brings tears with sparks which redeem.

Most people abandon their fire, or forget how embers are kindled.

I don’t worry about truth ever fading.

You’re burning with stars.

I’m beneath.

Your buddy behind you on Earth,

Jonathan