Poem: King

I don't post poetry here often compared to how much I write it, but this one I wanted to.

Opening a Dialogue; or, It's Been Seven Months Since You Opened My Texts and Your Brother Messaged Me to Say You're Okay but Not Ready to Open Messages Right Now and I Get It but Also I Worry Every Single Day; or, King

1am, I sit hunched over, tears speckling
a page I don't know how to write on.
Loss is something to which I have
become accustomed, this past year
more than ever; in some ways, it
gets easier each time, or at least numb-
ness comes faster. This morning, I
barely cried as I held my dead rat, his
loss a dull ache - but losing you is as
bright and unbearable as ever, a white
flaring pain in my chest. Every time I
approach this poem, the angle seems
to suggest you have died, which isn't
true as far as I know and pray, so I
suppose these words are written into
the universe, that you may one day
read them, and know how much I love
you.

Needing space, I understand; I also
understand being given too much
space, becoming unmoored in it, grow-
ing terrified to accept anyone back
into orbit. I want to promise you that
you can ricochet around me as much
as you need, but I'm terrified my own
atmosphere is so strong the phone
notification will drive you away. More
times than I can count, you have been
my anchor, a rock-solid base, strong
arms to hold everyone's problems. I
know more than anyone how we must
bear our own burdens, but the searing
white pain in my chest tells me to
tell you, I would give up my whole
life to carry your pain for a single
day.

I want to discuss the Sonic movie with
you; the one time I saw you speedrun
the game on an emulator blew my
mind, and I know you'll understand in
a way no one else did my obsession
with Jim Carrey's feral scientist energy.
I want to share Critical Role memes
with you; I'm still thirty episodes behind
but I know all the spoilers, and I don't
want to catch up without you. I want to
thank you, too, for my Christmas pres-
ents, dropped off without a word the
day you left; the Jester fridge magnet
holds my rent agreement in place like
she's holding my whole home together,
and the Fjord bookmark declares the
exact place I got bored of reading a
book on how to write better poetry, an
irony that would be lost on neither of
us.

Maybe my missing you is selfish,
a yearning for your laugh, your solid
presence, your keysmashes at jokes
no one else gets, your beard prickling
on my forehead when you hug me,
your spice-and-warmth smell, your
beautiful gap-teeth - but right now,
what I want more than any of that is
for you to know. That you are loved,
of course. And that you are the funn-
iest person I have ever known. That
you are the kindest, most thoughtful.
That you move through the world
with a quiet confident grace, too
careful to break anything with your
easy strength. That your smile is
the brightest my heart has ever seen.
That I want you back, but more than
that, I want you to be okay. Anchor.
Mountain. Sparrowhawk. Best friend.
King.