Byron

He was my best friend. At an age before love or boyfriends or sex. His pure heart was protected within my rib cage and mine within his. Never did I hear him moan about his problems; an internal jumbled mess like children on a play ground. We never went places together; but rather arrived to each other... found ourselves there... divine.

After school, we lost our pure minds, dreams blown from our lives like cobwebs. But still our hearts were kept safe by the other. Still, even tho bruised, they beat. Time was stretched between visitations; 2 days, 2 months, 2 years... stretched so thin you could see through it. Uncontaminated smiles turned - polluted and stained by life. By absence from youth. But he lived entirely - grabbing life by its throat and threatening time with his fist. He lived fast and hard and barely looked back or down to see if there were a soft landing.

The call was not expected. Least not by her. How did she know before me? Who was she to tell me this? Why did his heart not portray his demise in my chest? How silent were his screams. So silent that they echoed and bounced along that black black road which I have made darker with my tears. His breath was gone, but his heart was still protected by his guardian. I still remember him as a child; and I reflect on my wrinkles that time has etched in my soul. His heart makes me young again. I fear returning it to him. But I know his smile will ease my wounds.