Contributed by Ryan Camuto | email@example.com
I once had a friend, he was like an open book.
A musical score if I may
but he was blank,
a page without a single mark.
Clean, crisp, craving my ramblings with such reception.
It was in him I confided every ounce of my mind,
after such a moment he would just look,
and my open book friend knew
exactly what I meant.
His company though, those men and women
from head to toe were completely incomprehensible.
Not a word or utterance sunk into me.
And though all were related to one another, my friend knew me
and I him
And yet I hadn’t a clue about his fraternal brothers
Much older and wiser and more well read then either he or I.
I read these men word for indecipherable word, swallowing salt with every utterance.
As their words faded in specificity my dismissal of them was impossible.
I raged into my friend with such sincere vulgarity
but all I see is that he just repeated me.
Word for word
Line for line.
But I forgive him because that’ is what he must do.
I cannot forgive his consorts, in all of their vile vulger words.
These men were once the blank face friends of
some other arthritis inflicted people
and in years to come,
after I am gone
I will be survived by my friend.
He will tell my inner most thoughts to some new eye
who will look at him and just think
“What a vile, incomprehensible man.”
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