“write it down”

I’ve been in your world, mine being abreast.
I’ve tasted your desires, your values: all tucked deep within your purse.
Worlds conflict, as do these thoughts—the poor poet:
hopelessly lost.
Like ancient gods, ideas and beliefs do change.
But think, look, and react toward this inflammation derange.
See it.
Film it.
Paint it.
Believe in it.
Write it down.
Form your answers to those questions brought up by age—
explain this anti-maturity.
I am still here and you were once my prized friend.
Together we radiated, glimmering on the playground that no longer exists:
that place where I told you that I was the King of San Francisco,
John McLaren Park being my kingdom,
            that place where I held your hand and pointed toward that dried leaf,
            that moment when I forgot nothing, sailing meaningful
glances your way.
Through certain windows we still see the same.
But windows need to be cleaned, rinsed for the blind, polished for the lame.
I wish you would return my calls, my letters.
Parts of me still laugh, namely at myself.
But it feels good to think back, feeling you close and safe, hand-in-hand.