Mid-bite egg on toast,
avocado slices hanging over the edges,
a knife resting on the plate’s rim,

the news came.

No.


The door closed 

softly,

 
  no cry for help
  no last request
  no response

no.

only a stack of mail
  unopened.

Just

gone.

Knife sharp, the

 kitchen walls move closer, 

 voices float, 

 hands flit for something anything to do

I found my dear friend in the stack of unopened letters in his drawer
beside an ivory letter opener yellowed with age,

 rubber banded for when time slowed, 
when his pain lessened, 
when clarity cleared his vision.

I found him after he was gone
  whatever sorrows he carried
  still held tightly to his chest

I couldn’t stretch out
  any longer any further
  to figure out where.. why…

The knife grows dull with time.