We were boys back then, when days were longer.
We were stronger, too, in body and in mind. In time
perhaps we would weaken and soften, but in the now of then,
no end was in our mind, not yours, not mine,
there was no end to time.
We were hard and proud, eager, loud,
happy, stupid, drunk on beer and being young,
though we did not know then
just what that meant.
It meant being more alive
than ever we would be again.
Moving on from booze and song,
we fell apart and into what was yet to come.
The moment we began to think of others
our youth began to leave us.
Our selfish armour pierced by the lance of love
and the prick of its thorny crown, we found
there was more than just our self to centre on.
From the moment after being young,
little leavings of ourselves fell all around us,
dribbles and trickles of what had been
invincible lay in mortal ruins at our feet.
We die in increments.
What you had been was gone too soon,
crashed out in a welter of steel
and a sixteen-wheeler that you never passed
on a road coming back from your future.
Your mortality ruined me, my friend.
I had not yet learned to live.