Singularity II

Aging, itself, is a sort of war.
I have lost my friends,
time being the primary cause.
I heft the phone
or begin to write an e-mail,
but, then, remember:
I’m the one that’s left.

Not that I’m completely alone
or am not loved.
Parts I have lost of myself
--like clothes worn out--
do not determine my identity,
though once a part.

We were friends incorporeal
in how we thought,
how we lived, how we loved,
what we mourned,
what we thought was funny.

Indeed, I begin to phone
just to see how one of them is doing
or to remind of an incident shared:
“Do you remember?”

Or to talk about what made us friends:
a different kind of respect.
We were not alike,
didn’t like each other over much,
even sometimes fought.

Still, we were friends.
And now they’re forever gone:
It’s “Goodbye.” And again “Goodbye.”