Dear Brian

It seems you’re finally off the hook

I’ve a new ghost to haunt me, a new ghost to

visit with in dreams, a new ghost to

infiltrate every word I write, every thought

I have. Thirty years

is a long time to stick around.

*

Are you finally free? Or have you been

all along? Can you truly be free when

there are those left missing you?

*

Funny, how I think of you both in such terms.

I thought it when you died–Free!

And it was my first thought for him, too.

Why does life have to be so hard? Is it

organic? A consequence of being human. Or is it

societal? A construct of rules and mores never meant for our kind.

*

“You were born too wild for this world.”

I wrote that once, to you.

“You were born too brilliant for this world.”

That is what I wrote for him.

Wild. Brilliant. Can anyone be “too” of such things?

Why does that make one unable to cope? Unable

to be happy? Something’s not right, and I’m pretty sure

it wasn’t you, it wasn’t

him, it was

all the rules penning you in.

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