Overdose

My dear friend,

I would carry your life for you if I could. I would buy a second backpack and stuff it all in, slinging it over my shoulder. I would let my bones crack and crumble under the weight. I would let my knees give out, and I would crawl forth on bloodied palms. But I can’t. Only you can carry your life.

Remember speeding to your house in a nicotine cloud? Head rushing, you said that colors looked brighter. I would never leave that cloud—I would let my lungs collapse and decompose in that glycerin marsh—if it meant you always saw colors so brightly. But I cannot control how you see. Only you can.

Remember climbing one night to the rim of a basketball hoop, your feet resting in the net? I would that your feet got caught, or that you fell in and were stuck forever, if it meant I were there to know you were laughing, smiling for the photo. But now you are on the ground, far away, and I do not know if you are smiling or not.

Remember sitting in your driveway one evening with candles, not drinks? We were freestyling, you were kicking my ass, and that night I played “miles” by bsd.u. I would live in that space forever. I would let the outer world wither and vanish. I would toss my duties and aspirations on some dusty, irrelevant shelf, if it meant you and I would remember what it means to have peace of mind. But that is not your driveway anymore. And I have not heard that song in years.

Remember watching movies on repeat? We would converse through quotes. It never got old. I would remain sitting with you on that couch, streaming movies, your cat perched somewhere nearby, if it meant you and I, too, would never grow old. But already my brow is furrowing, and the last time we sat—really sat—was on a curb at night in the mall parking lot.

Remember wrestling at the park near your house? I was much taller, but you were stronger for your size. We were an even match until you locked your arm around my throat and threw me. I would have let my windpipe crumple, my neck fold, my eyes fill with dirt and grass, if there I could stay in your arms, my brother. But now you are thousands of miles away, and I cannot hug you and remind you how strong you are.

Remember drifting the Prius in snowy circles? It was my father’s car, but it was I who put my foot down. I would have sent us off the ridge, our tongues to hang limply under tempered glass and the snowing sky, if it meant you and I would be forever care-free. But now, having drifted apart, you and I fell into our respective arroyos. Lend me a hand and together we will climb out.

Remember writing songs in one sitting? It was as if by magic that those broken keys sprung forth, and your voice carried a wisdom I did not then fully appreciate. I have since heard you speak many times, and I am humbled. It is no miracle that your words carried wisdom, because you are you.

My first memory of you is when we met, at a potluck the summer before 9th grade. A few days later, you passed me on your bike, and when I called your name, you skidded to a stop like a superhero under the canopy’s dappling light. You showed me a two-card monte and I showed you a card teleportation. That, I believe, started it all.

Be brave, young padawan. I love you like a brother.

Stay safe, and don’t forget to breathe.

Yours ever,

Moonjay