Dear Matt,

You wanted to be a Matthew,

or Mat or Mathieu –

something more exotic, more sophisticated

or maybe just more.

I know you don’t remember that night

so long ago

when we packed up my shitty apartment

and that Jackson Brown album, on repeat,

said everything I’d ever wanted to.

For the first time, I thought I might know you

a little.

But as it often is,

the light of day was harsh –

that half bottle of cough syrup, mine,

left from some bout of bronchitis

stolen, brazenly thrown on the floor.

And Matty, I only bring it up now

because I’m still too close to write the rest,

because I need you to know

that I found the empty bottle

and that it always made me wonder

what that night meant.

God, it made me feel so lonely.