Letter to a Friend
We have lived inside this world,
a graying cylinder of glass
housing fractured tenants.
We are young; something of twenty still resonates
in the handprints we left on the walls.
But we are growing old
with every glimpse of life—
we are growing afraid
of our lengthening shadows.
We saw our parents naked in the dark
and in our hearts, we walked backwards.
We commune over bitter bread,
tasting bitterness with each tearful bite,
tasting their brokenness and our own.
We cannot heal this wound
without entering into the darkness of our souls,
with our eyes
twinkling like stars
to cast it out.
Even then, we will be surprised
at the hope that can be born out of grief
and the colors that are discovered
on the underside of ourselves.