You were right

You once told me
how you loved
the way
you could see your
bruised knees
through worn down soap,
and how
I loved
watching my bruised knees
become as lifeless as
the silk on the gown my mother used to wear.

You once told me
how you loved the way

a mandolin seemed
to open its mouth
and swallow all the stars from the heavens
whole
which was fuel for the sound:
not unlike a quasar.
and I replied
that a mandolin was an instrument, and nothing more

You once told me
how you loved the homeless man on our street corner
and how he always said hello
to strangers
and smiled at each scrap paper person who passed, like they
mattered.
I told you
that he was probably insane,
and should get a real job

Well, surprisingly
you were the first of us to go

but, to this day, I wish I had told you
before you
descended that staircase
that you
were
right.