Kyle

Kyle
Jessica Marie

Sometimes I wonder what happened to Kyle,
as this picture sparks my memory—
with a torn up shirt; ragged to touch,
light blue, bloodied--don't you worry too much
fake, a bright, bright red.
He's such a cute little zombie.
The picture, dated 2009,
the year that I "met" him,
or wished we met in person—
I fantasized, a secret hidden beneath,
my ex never suspected a lust for his friend.
He made fun of Kyle, though,
how my longings grew and grew
despite the taunts, how unfair of him!
He would be perfect for me,
unlike this piece of garbage I dated.
Kyle was a writer. Much like me.
If only, oh if only, we met--
we'd write poems for hours,
talk about books while sipping coffee,
while musing about our travels to Germany;
we'd talk about the wrongs of the world
and how our exes screwed us over.

We connected on Facebook, a wonderful surprise—
I can't remember if I told him how I felt,
I think I did. I know I did, just thinking:
"we can't do that. If he found out,
if he found out, we'd be dead."
In hopes to fly to North Carolina,
he disappeared, to my dismay, from Facebook
and the hope I'd live happily ever after
in the snowy region of Asheville
with his comic book obsession
and dressing up for conventions
as zombies or anime characters or whatever—
that would be happiness, that would be love.
As I look at this picture, a perfect blue day,
clouds hanging in the sky;
North Carolina looks warm and inviting;
his smile lights his fuzzy bearded face
and cars zoom behind him.
I sometimes wonder what happened to Kyle—
oh, how I miss him!