Nine Eight Eight. Call me
later when you feel alone,
confused, without hope.
Imagine a world
where people don't care, money
makes the world go round.
Not that they don't care
at all but specifically,
they simply can't cope.
Even if they could,
they'd spend their whole lives trying
to live like the Pope.
Even if you called
back in the day, before now,
before nine eight eight
I cannot believe
you wanted anything more
than death, the unsound
Guarantee to end
suffering with suicide,
so you grabbed a rope.
However often
I replay that day, I find
you suddenly gone.
To say you were sad,
disaffected and distraught,
sorrow set a date.
Even if I knew
how to help you overcome
the pain of your past
I cannot believe
God wanted you to survive,
to live, even thrive.
Given, you are dead,
and I, left without my friend,
how long must this last?
How long must I grieve
the mistake I feel you made;
that I am alive
Take me from this world,
not you, my beautiful friend;
you are not alone.
Call me, I'm waiting
to hear your voice, whiskey sour,
raspy, husky, hoarse.
Ask me if I cried,
it took me weeks, all alone
in my car, I wailed.
Left with my anguish,
after all the strange questions
I could not answer
Left with my desire
to understand your despair,
I felt, I had failed
Myself to help you;
as if I arrived too late
to cure this cancer
Even metaphors
fall flat in the face of death;
now, I know the source.
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