Shattered portrait – a chance to start again –
And sweet prose addressed from quite a distance:
Friendships lost for all time, not existence.
Typed-up, and yet not my words – not my win.
They were simply something that I missed – thin.
Some days they jabbed, stabbed, lacking eloquence.
Other days the words roared soft compliments.
Still I recall when I made my first friend.
By the end, there was a dance to my step,
But the beginning was all rage and tears.
Woe! From my one fiction to another:
I look back on the note to Him I kept,
More heart, blank slate, in those few words than fear;
Kiss the night, “Bye,” just like all the others.