You spoke with conviction

of the terrorism of the state.

And I, hesitant,

of those fraught landscapes of the mind.

The vodka clouded sentimentally,

a cordial of fuzzy peace,

making us believe, almost,

in a shared folklore,

a common heritage of warriorship.

That traditional repertoire of ripostes,

slippery pink with undergrad wisdom,

some kisses, moon-chilled, inevitable,

in a darkened car,

photographs, mirth-riddled,

fast fading into a generic sepia,

and cups of tea, burnt orange

by the rage and sunlight of college cafeterias.

But on nights of black slate,

buses, old insomniacs,

have long had the habit

of erasing pedestrians,

sometimes friends.

Like you, they rarely equivocate

in matters of life

or death.

And so, comrade with an alien vocabulary,

seeker on a journey I almost understood

in a sly, crustacean sort of way,

one night you flattened

in an instant

from rebel,

splendid, young,

tormented,

to reminiscence.