Sometimes talking to you is like pilling a cat.

How you text me at 7:30 p.m.

   my time, but 8:30 p.m. your time:

       "Soo, not sure if you want to hear this,

         but I am trying to get sober again."

     Why would I not want to hear this?

My friend, who I love and who loves me,

wants to try again to embark

on a path I chose and choose again

each morning, each evening.

Committing to and marrying a life

that has grown like moss on trees—

lush, green, vibrant. The moss you instinctively,

in Freudian fervor, mush your hand into

and delight in the calm chill of endless

potential. I like to think that way back when

we lived in tribes in dwellings, not countries and homes,

we licked, and tasted, and smelled, and listened

to the moss as well.

     Why there is nothing I want more to hear

than my friend, who I love and who loves me,

wants to try again to embark

on a path I chose and choose again—

     and love you still if you U-turn back.