I wonder if you are. The last we spoke was with knives extended And you nearly slit my throat with yours. Our childhood of shared plate seems to fade With the passage of adult responsibility. I write as I’ve given up searching for ghosts In alleys of evil, not poetically, but of the True underworld of humanity’s Forgotten, forsaken, forlorn souls. My socks are filled with bloodstained holes; My heart is restless with bitter acceptance; I cannot save you from yourself, It, and you, nearly killed me trying. In the alleys I did rediscover my faith — It’s not devout, but enough of a spark to See a pathway out of the abyss. It pains me to realize these steps don’t Include yours alongside mine, As it once was when we ran through the Tamaracks and built tree houses with Rusty nails and bare feet. I don’t know if you’re alive, and truthfully, I don’t know if it matters anymore. Wherever you are, I wish you peace, and I forgive you for everything. I wonder if one day I may be able to say the Same thing to myself… But for now I will Continue to live in honor of the person you Once were. — Stream of consciousness