He does not write to me.
Instead he sends me sketches.
One of coffee in a paper cup,
planes in the background
through large thick windows.
One of the rails of a balcony
with a river rushing below.
One of me, lip bit and eyes shinning
as I watched him go.
In my letters,
I ask him about the weather,
he sketches the rain on the window.
I ask him if he is keeping busy,
he sketches a sketch of him sketching
within a sketch of him sketching.
I ask him if he’s lonely,
he sketches my face among the rumpled
blankets of morning, sun streaking
from the windows behind me.
He sketches two children playing
invisible violins and
reading each other’s palms.
I ask him if he had forgiven himself,
he sketches houses rebuilt and clear skies.
In a moment of weakness,
I ask him if I will ever see him again.
To this he replies with words,
hand scrawled and sloppy,
I count the days, my dearest friend.