Not long ago, there we were, you and I,
No good luck wish, no enduring goodbye,
So certain we would meet again someday,
With new things to hear, to ask, and to say.
Yet, we've since swapped mere pleasantries,
Made nothing more than polite enquiries,
Even the punctual greeting on the birthday,
Seems an annual homage one's had to pay.
The predominant silence does seem just,
Is it not the core that animates the crust?
How can anyone ever have to pretend,
With someone they believe is their friend?
At times, I wonder if I should call or write,
But can't find anything to share, angst or delight;
Apparitions of the living, as those of the dead,
Seem invoked by what is heard, read, or said.
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