Missed

So I wrote an email to a dying friend,
and I never sent the damned thing.
It was finished. I could have just clicked send.
But I didn’t and he’s dead now.

It is still in my Drafts - with no where to go.
Pent up rain for a parched throat.
Where can it go? It floats in my head.
Bobbing up to remind me…

Potential energy perhaps. Potential love. Too raw?
Will I ever pluck it out? Will I ever let it free?
I don’t want it.

Go away bobber. I’ll not entertain you. I was not so close to him.
He did not need my love.
He was not really a friend.
Just a distant kin.

I’ll not entertain you - go away! It’s not mine.

It’s not mine.

Not mine.