Old Friend

August 21, 2019 § Leave a comment

They, who pulled the stars from the heavens

Took the light from your eyes

As though it were too bright

Too childish

Everything it should not be.


When I see you standing in alpine photographs

Tall and broken in your bekishe

I think of my grandfather

And of how nothing had to be this way, actually.


It could have been bright, like the stars.


Where Am I?

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