What I Would Like to Believe

I would like to believe that you are in California
with an old laptop some friend let you borrow,
then saw you had a necessity for it,
the words pouring forth from your mind at 2am,
like you do. There you sit, a loud TV on in another room,
but you've learned not to complain since the rent is cheap.

And moment by moment, you narrate the madness of passing world
passing life
beautifully
and with your rueful half-smile.

I promised myself I'd be the first to read it!
Before the piece even touched the shelf,
somehow I'd know.
And all the blurred years of ink and heartbreak,
and your illegible pencil-scratch notes,
would begin their healing in me, as
I read about your cross-country journeys,
your smoking up with strangers,
and how you realized it would get you nowhere.

Surviving on meager cooking of your own,
occasionally working up a kitchen masterpiece to share with...

with whom? There I stop.

No one traveled that road with you.
No one knew.
No one knew.