I could write a poem
that no one could tell was for you.
it would be about three slumped lawn chairs
in a vacant garage fading black cover in ash
The burning cigarette of depressed teenagers,
held in his trembling left hand.
The same hand that used to help me up
after longboarding face first into a ditch.
Help me the times when I suffocated from the
thoughts clouding my already sick brain.
I’d describe the emptiness of the month that went by.
A room with bulleted done furniture and nothing else.
a bland white hospital bed
A yellow stress ball with the black dotted eyes
and wide symmetrical smile
it used to keep you sane
throwing against the wall with frustration
It would be about a movie trailer,
a small black roof top
and a new alternative song you discovered
that reminded you of the beatles.

In that garage,
Cigarettes roasting,
a red frisbee
discoloured by the pile of ash inside.