I want to go to Prague with you—the city you told me had more statues of poets than soldiers. And the rest of Europe, and Mexico, and all the homes we said we’d take each other to. I want to laugh at the lime green hippo you brought on our road-trip. I want to make friends with sidewalks and streetlights again (did I mention I am scared of them lately?). I want to dream with you about worlds we will build with raw hands. I want to cancel another birthday party to go for another walk in the meaningless California cold with you. I want to believe the news of your death (well, not really, but they tell me I should). I want to write Amnesty International letters. I want to go to the Neighborhood Cup and order a Literary Latte. I want what it takes to worry about a friend’s broken heart while you slip out of life (I want you to know I reached out to him, and he’s okay, and they’re still together). I want to stop imagining your face once the cancer was done with you. I want to take white chocolate mochas off every menu in the world, so they will always be your drink. I want to do something about the femicide in Guatemala. I want to stop looking through photos. I want to go to your funeral. I want to puncture the globe on my desk, make continents overlap. I want to pretend you are still alive, and this not-having-a-funeral-to-go-to serves that purpose just fine. I want to have that Skype conversation we didn’t have last month because your face was paralysed. I want to remember your voice. I want to hear a French accent without thinking of you. I want always to be thinking of you. I want to hold on to your dimple. But mostly, I just want to go to Prague with you.
This poem was first published in the April 2014 issue of the Four Quarters Magazine