A Poem Beginning with the Death of Caesar

Et tu, Brute?—Then fall Caesar.

[He dies.]

The stab wasn't what killed him,

no,

Caesar truly died of a broken heart.

Yes,

upon seeing his best friend involved in the conspiracy,

Caesar could no longer find the strength to live in this world.

I can't say I blame him.

A bond with a best friend,

a true best friend,

is deeper than family,

deeper than marriage.

They are your soulmate.

But that kind of relationship is a mutual thing.

It may be unspoken,

sure,

but it is mutual.

The pain of finding out a best friendship isn't mutual is unbearable.

The rejection is one thing,

but there's almost always an accompanying betrayal.

That's the real knife,

the real stab.

It twists in your heart and,

instead of blood,

makes tears flow.

And you stare at the one you loved so much,

wishing you could just disappear or die.

But you aren't Caesar,

they aren't Brutus,

and,

though the pain is there,

the knife isn't.

So you live,

wondering when the pain will end.

Still Fourteen - Beginning with a Line by Shakespeare

To me fair friend you never can be old

because you will always be fourteen,

awkward but happy-go-lucky,

with jacked-up teeth and mousy brown hair.

You knew no pain then,

not really,

and you were refreshing to my already tortured mind.

You made my dark times easier,

holding a flashlight out for me to find you,

even though you never knew what you were really doing.

Things are a little different now.

You have experienced pain and heartbreak,

despite my very best efforts to help you otherwise,

but I was there with a flashlight for you,

returning the favor.

You now know the full extent of all you did for me,

which makes it harder for me to hide my pain from you,

but I know that's for the best.

Still,

time has flown by the last eight years,

and every time I see you,

I still see the awkward fourteen-year-old in my algebra class,

asking if I want to work with her.