Tell me, friend

classic blue coupe die cast model

Photo by Moose Photos on Pexels.com

Tell me, friend. How am I supposed to tell the difference? Between you and an old friend. Tell me, friend, if I say green would you say blue? If I say nice would you say no? If I show you a picture would say you’re fine? That is why. It’s a struggle to tell you that you are very much alike. In beauty, in philosophy, in music even in the body. Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? I read you and play along with your music and this satiable understanding always struck me: you are another person. Silly for the angels to marvel at you. Silly for me though without wings marvel at you. Tell me, friend. How could this be? Whenever the words slip out of your mouth, they slip out because the truth wants to come out. But this truth tells me otherwise. Your eyes, beard, skin, lips, and hair are reasons to show me much of my old friend. Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? How am I supposed to tell the difference? If this existential wealth draws out my name, praises my soul but steals my thoughts. Tell me, friend. Are you an old friend? Tell me, friend. Are you his reincarnate? Your hands know the danger of the strings and yet, they know how to web letters and make music. Your voice is the voice of an old friend; an old friend who disappeared. Tell me, friend. If this fondness makes any sense that I without wings become fixated; fascinated by the sameness of the semblance. Tell me, friend. Silly I am. Silly I am. I see that old friend in you. I’m out of the purple-blue. Tell me, friend. Tell me, friend, oh if it is you.

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