A Poem Written Under Lamplight

I read koans and you
Pretended to understand
And you craved and I knew
Not for what.
I wrote poems for you
And you hid them in
Steering wheel covers
Only to sell them with
The vehicle.
I knew the leaving was inevitable,
And this why
I always insisted on copies.
Because I knew
That
I was their mule,
Their tool
For
Self-gratification and
Aggrandizement.
I was the busted knuckles
That fixed your car and you gave
Ne'er a loving glance or appreciative
Nod.
I was the gentle hand that comforted
your progeny when you were
Withdrawing from skag and
Pulling inward into your own
Carelessness.
And you,
In true form the abandoner,
and I,
the relinquished.
I was that caress
that touch
that meant
that you were beautiful
beyond measure
and your own prejudices
villified us both.
Maybe I will walk as a loving ghost,
Always caring and loving and with no tangibility or identity.
Drifting.
Concerned, with no hands to caress.

A ripcurrent and dragtide of
friendship
that sank me, drowned me,
and fossilized me.