I thought of you yesterday. I walked past a blue Ford truck layered with an inch of pollen. Its blanket on the hood and doors formed the perfect canvas. I wanted to draw something in the sediment. I tried to hard to think about what you would’ve written. Probably something lewd or profane. I imagined what you would do. You were scrawling your masterpiece into the buff layer. And, you’d brush your dirtied fingertips off on your jeans. And, then you’d say, “Look it matches.” And, we’d walk faster. And, we’d laugh. And, we’d jog. And, we’d sprint, just for the fun of it, down to the end of the street. And, panting you’d say, “What’s the point of all this?” And, we’d laugh again, breathlessly.

        The last time I thought about you was in December. We spent hours in the settlement pond of the canal. Frozen solid with a crust of god knows what. And, you sat on the frozen mud and ice. Overlooked by the icy shell of the falling water over the weir. And, I said, “Aren’t we gonna do anything.” And, I stood over you as my shadow blotted out your view of the sun. And, you laughed. And, you peeled yourself off the frozen ground. And, you walked over to the frozen wall of ice and hit it with your balled fist. And, I said, “What’s the point of all this?” And, you laughed again, wordlessly.

        The first time we met was many years ago in September. We kicked over the neat bags of leaves by the side of the road. They spilled their warm tones all over the blacktop. Amber and gold flakes danced on the frigid asphalt. We would come back to a confetti of all of the autumnal detritus over the black asphalt. A dash of warmth to paint the sickly pale world. And, you said, “It’s beautiful.” And, I laughed. And, I kicked the spread of chopped leaves, spraying them into the air as they fought with the cold, blue, evening light. And, you said, “What’s the point of all this?” And, I laughed again, listlessly.

        The last time I saw you was three Junes ago. The sun beat down on us ruthlessly. Humid air made sweat pour off our brows. We slinked into the nearest cafe and got icy lemonade. Our glasses exuded diamonds. It was sweet and sour and satisfying and satiating. I noticed you weren’t drinking any. And, you said, “I hate myself.” And, you laughed. And, I stared blankly back as I processed this terrible information you left for me. And, you put your head down and started sobbing. And, I said nothing still, even though I had so much to tell you. And, you said, “What’s the point of all this?” And, you laughed again, sullenly.

        Last I heard your voice was November of that same year. You called me on the phone as I looked out the window. The frost coated all of the amber leaves. It pulled the color out of them greedily. The sharp spines of frost digging into the dried flesh of those beautiful leaves. And, you said, “There’s something wrong with me.” And, I cried silently, I searched for something to say as the tears rolled down my cheeks. And, I stared blankly outside as the tears left my skin taut underneath as they dried. And, you’d gone quiet for too long, and a sob broke the silence. And, I chastised myself for not telling you what I should have. And, you said, “What’s the point of all this?” And, you laughed, sarcastically.

        It was a couple days later when I found out what you did. I got a text goodbye. I was waiting for the bus in the afternoon. I texted you back as soon as I could, but it was too late. I called you over and over and over. I placed all of my hope in the small spaces between the dial tones. And, I said to your voicemail greeting, “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t say I love you.”And, I’d felt the tears forming at the corners of my eyes again. And, I let them run down my face as they left icy cold trails. And, I slumped on the frosty, stiff metal bench. And, I felt as my chest started to rise in fits and starts. And, I watched as the gold and amber sunset faded to blue. And, I said to the last recording I had of your voice, “What’s the point of all of this?” And, I cried again.

        Last time I heard of you was in December of that same year. The snow outside of the car was brilliantly white; save for the beige road slush sprayed onto the snowbanks. The hardpack ice dirtied with the broken bits of asphalt and tires. It sucked all of the brilliant color out of the world and buried those autumn leaves we used to love. And, your mom called me, and I hesitated to pick up. And, she said, “There’s something of his you should see.” And, I felt empty. And, I looked through your notebook. And, I saw what was eating at you as I thumbed through the torn and incomplete pages. And, I found out you weren’t the boy I knew. And, I hated you for keeping it to yourself. And, I turned to reveal the first blank page. And, your mom said, “What’s the point of all this?” And, I cried harder than I ever had before.