To Dan Corrigan, for the last time

This is the last poem I will write you
if I have to cut of my hand
to ensure it.
I doubt you read these anymore-
if you do,
I miss your friendship
and still have the sonic screwdriver you built
(it died though,
and the mug handle broke again).

(Also,
if you have that poem I gave you still somewhere,
I would appreciate a copy.
I handed over the only rendering,
and I'm wondering if it's as good
as I remember.
All I have are drafts in a sketchbook
(remember when I thought I could draw?
HA!))

It sticks me still,
deep somewhere,
that I had to betray my dearest friend
to save myself.

I guess I loved you enough
to step in front of a bullet,
a car or whatever you needed
and die for you-
but I didn't love you enough
to choose a slower death.

They say love
is living for someone,
choosing each day
to do things to lift
the other above yourself
so that you both see God.
I did that,
I think.
But it's not love
to suffocate yourself but still breathe,
cutting off bit by bit
that won't grow back
in a self-destruction
that only leaves you
lower
than when you started.

I guess in the end,
the self-preservation,
the self-centered but not selfish
pieces that make up my core
won out
over the endless toil I would undertake
for my people.

You were one,
you were water
and you drowned me
but I guess I really am a fish after all
because I haven't stayed drowned.

There was no malice
in your actions,
I know.

I miss you.
The easy friendship,
the laughter and the support.
I'm sorry I got back up
faster than you.
I'm not sorry for breaking that loyalty.
I would have lost either way,
and you as well.
Better this way,
to mend.

I hope you have kept
the Argentinean accent you had in French.
I hope you still bake your own bread
and craft impossible things.
I hope you learned to sing in front of people,
and create and grow.
I hope you're not reading this.
I hope you mourned our friendship faster.