under the depths of buried content, after 600 attempts, when most would have given up on 10,
hiding behind your real name, after years of maintaining a pseudonym,
should have searched with the words taped on your front door,
but even I forgot what you originally stood for.
Thought I’d find you inconsolable, the Tortured Queen,
still digging through avalanches of snow,
holding out decaying fingers to any stranger, bundled in a pile of spider-web ridden scarves,
huddled in wet boots in an alley down Dufferin,
blood crawling out of overused nostrils,
still dreaming about unmade tattoos on top of a skin
that’s seen worse days.
Yet, you’re vibrant, still strong, still in love with your life, every detail of it–
Even unemployment and near-homelessness weren’t enough to bring you down.
No longer the friend I once knew, just another anecdote,
just another character standing across from me, blur of purple and pink,
giving me that wide-set grin, eyes riveting,
background story immortalized in that one night,
filtered through my bias, truth condensed into this one-paragraph fiction,
I wrote just for you.