The old church
was a wreck,
just bush
timbers
and lime washed
bags
with a few sheets
of iron on the roof.
The only person
we ever saw
there
was a drunk
with delirium
tremens.
Karaknya and I
went there one
day,
cut a mark on
our thighs
with some
broken bottle,
exchanged blood
and rubbed in
red desert dust
up above where
it would be seen –
our secret.
The mark has
faded
over the years
but is still
there.
Our lives
took us
different ways,
to different places
and we lost
each other.
I had always
meant
to renew the
friendship
some day – sometime,
but somehow
never did,
even after I
found where Karaknya was.
Perhaps I was
afraid of what I might find
or just
unwilling to take the risk.
Whatever,
Karaknya has gone
now.
Just the scar
and the memory
remain.
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