You’ve been there through thick and thin.
Releasing messages from the ink in my pen.
Who are you, to which i depend?
Who are you, if alive, I’d call friend?

A runaway, like
An 8 year old getting a whooping.
A reliever, like
A small white pill, strength of a million moons.

If you were alive—aren’t you alive?
You’ve been a fiscal part in my life?
Beautiful being you are—if you were alive.
Aren’t you alive?
From seeing you in passing,
wearing those figurative jeans,
sharing conversation over my cup of tears.
You must be alive and living with me

by. Philip G. Steverson