The Man I'll Never Know

I'm sitting here. Slightly blazed and moderately coherent. Haven't really focused on anything these past couple of hours. And then, I'm scrolling. Through mindless bullshit and pathetic lives. So, why do I keep looking through the carefully lighted photos and statuses I never care about? Who the fuck knows. And then I see a status. "RIP *meaningful words here*" and at the end there is a tag. First thing I notice, stupid name. Next thing I notice, I have some self-work to do. The kid's name is Boomer, perhaps a nickname or just his given name. Either way, rare name these days. So I click. And I scroll. And I read. And I scroll. Heart-felt goodbyes he'll never read. Tagged photos. Cute kid. Blonde hair. Slightly red face. A college boy. He's from Kansas. I'll probably never go to Kansas. Never wanted to. The chance that'd I'd ever know this kid: slim to none. Scroll. Click. Security settings. Too bad. I can only see a short part of his profile. And then, a button. A grey square among other grey squares. It reads, "Add Friend." And I'm tempted. I want to hit that button, learn more about this kid. But whether or not I decide to click it, I will always see that same, short profile. And you know what? That fucking saddens me. Because I probably would never have met him. Wouldn't have put a voice to the face. A hand to a shake. An eye to contact. And I'll never know whether his name really is Boomer. Maybe his real name is worse. Maybe better. Either way, no difference now. He was just a college kid. Like every other college kid. And maybe he was gonna be great. A man you'd look up to. Aspire to. Envy, too. Maybe. Or maybe, he wouldn't have been. Maybe his imprint would've been small. A small wake drowned out by huge waves. I think I'd like to have known more. Watched him grow. Learn. Succeed. Fail. Make it in life. Break his own life. I'll never know. That kills me. And any truth in utterance at the request of my mood would breed confusion. Condemnation. Scoffing. Why? You don't know him. Why care? Because I never will.

And because as I reflect on this writing, I don't know whether to write is or was. Is he? Or was he? Does his being metaphorically live on? Or does it lie there in the dirt beside him, ever loyal to its host?