The Listening Judge

You had tears brimming in your eyes, red, your hair-snipping scissors twirling in your hand. For a brief moment of an over-active imagination, I was afraid you’d drive that pair down into your chest. I’ve never seen you like this before and I was at a loss for words. You told me about the knife that was twisting your heart; I could only offer you my two ears. We sat on your bed and we laid down – and I kick myself always at not being able to do more than just listen, or offer un-clichéd words of comfort. Or respond intelligently. Or tell you that things would be better in the next few days. Or that your heart will soon stop bleeding. Or proffer sound, mature advice. Or that as long as I live, the only help I could give is to listen and not judge.

I could tell you were deeply hurt. How do we mend a bleeding heart?

You are way too strong sometimes you seem almost inhuman. But I’ll always believe in you, because, my good man, we both know that bros over hos.

We sang together the first few lines of Jason Mraz’s Lucky. And I was lucky to have known you.