Dressed in black,
I came to witness,
Every tear that fell,
All the bouquets they sent,
Photographs of old memories,
The twilight in the room,
Carefully chosen conversations,
The heading on the tombstone,
I am sorry for your loss,
I'm sorry it was me.

You dad used to work with my dad
I remember
You and I used to argue
About who was taller
When our families
Got together for dinner
You were the boy
With the slightly curly blondish hair
We were those friends
Who were friends when they saw each other
But our time together
Was always limited
And we never hung out or talked
When our families didn't arrange to meet
But I remember you well
You probably don't recall this
But you taught me how to tie my shoes
When we were little
Back then
It was okay
To be friends with a guy your age
Without any thought of romance
Having any possibility
Of coming into play
But now
You and I
Are older
The same age
And tonight
And I heard your family
Was coming
So I put on a dress
Even though it was a bit much
For the occasion
I blow dried my hair
And put on my make up
Tried to look pretty for you
Rehearsed smiling
When I opened the door to you
But unfortunately
I opened the door
And only your parents came in
You were busy or something
I don't know
The parents joke
About how they should have told you
That I was going to be there
Good opportunity for you to get a girlfriend
But honestly
That is kind of along the same lines
That I was thinking
I got all dressed up
For nothing
I'm a little disappointed
They talk about you
They say you've grown tall
Stockier than your older brother
I wonder
If your attractive eyes
Have changed at all
I hope not
Your eyes always smiled
Brighter than your mouth
I hope to see you soon sometime
Because I'd like to see
What has become
Of the boy I used to know
Who taught me how to tie my laces
With the smiling eyes
And the slightly curly blondish hair
You might have forgotten me
But I
Remember you

I love standing
at the top largest hill of
Camp Half-Blood. Watching the
greens as the nymph wood dance in the hum of nature. Satyrs seasoning the forest with their magic recipe. I should spend more time, admiring the beauty of the wilds. For ere long, the border won't last long. Barbaric creatures will start to crawl. Demigods will fight, and I'll be there, holding a papyrus like a playwright.*

   (a.k)

If the sadness goes
What will be left of me?