the death of a playwright.

it's curious. 

we're weaving through all the properly acknowledged milestones, 

appropriately, from the beginning.

we're dodging streamers and birthday cake, 

achievement awards and concerts

we're walking to school together, 

i have a splinter in my finger and you've just produced a sewing needle

in the hope of coaxing the damn thing out. 

and on, 

and on. 

and then we're slowing down, 

i'm slowing down, 

i turn around, 

you're not there. 

quickly, quickly, here are more:

you had the most peculiar habit

of emptying the dregs from your morning pot of tea

into the garden. 

i could never read your hand-writing except for my name, 

sometimes yours. 

and on, 

and on. 

i can't slow down, 

i can't slow down, 

there are three years now 

that separate me and 

you.