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Your friend died last night, for thirty minutes.
We were there when it happened— he simply
drank too much, and fell asleep.
We all drank too much, especially for
three under-aged kids with scared faces and no future and
we were the best of friends because you held back my hair.

We were laughing until he stopped breathing.
I'm glad you noticed, because I was too caught up in looking at you
to notice anything besides your blue eyes and how deeply you felt
everything
you
said.

You called an ambulance, slurring the words of the address into a prayer;
you were praying: "Make it on time, take me instead. Please don't forsake us,
take me instead, yes… that's right, 212 is the street number,
Hurry. Hurry. He's dead."

The medics arrived like angels, interrupting ten minutes of drunken CPR
praising us for trying so hard.
You were not okay to drive, so we rode in the back of the ambulance and you cried.
You cried on my shoulder the whole way there, praying for justice for every soul you've ever met.
You said, "God please, take me instead. Use my faith to carry him over. God, please.
I should be dead. Use my faith to carry him over."

The chaplain in the emergency room didn't have the heart to tell you
it doesn't work that way,
he just clamped his hand down on your shoulder and told you god hears all prayers.
I was a devout agnostic, so I sighed and fidgeted while you and the chaplain
sent words and thoughts up to the sky.

I almost asked if anyone heard you, but
the news came down the line then—
It was an accidental suicide. There was nothing left to do,
but cry and pray and call the parents.
(They were all the way across the country, on the other coast,
and knew nothing of their son's rough-and-tumble broken knuckles
and the way he self-medicated like the liquor cabinet was a pharmacy.)
You cursed and spit.
I sighed and stood;
you asked to see the body.

Twenty-seven minutes in, and we had seen the world end.
It was then I decided not only the good die young,
because you were still here and we felt so old.
Twenty-eight minutes in, and you were crying again;
my shoulder was soaked with your tears.
Your friend was still and "pale as death" took on a new meaning until
twenty-nine minutes in, you screamed to god to take you instead.
And thirty minutes in, there was the slightest shudder, an eye-flutter.
The machines went crazy. There were lines and waves and noises.
You went crazy.

Two hours, two pints of blood, and two cups of black coffee later:
You kissed me in the emergency room because you learned life doesn't last forever.
I kissed back because I had always known.

Today we asked him what it was like to die.
He laughed as he answered: "Hell's a beach, bro."
You smiled, "God bless you boys from Bravo.
Don't die yet, brother. I've already been through hell with you on earth;
let's see the real thing together."

Twelve hours in and you kissed me again.
Your eyes look like heaven and you pray for justice for every soul you've ever known.
No one has the heart to tell you it doesn't work that way,
so we all smile as you send your wishes up like air-kisses
to a lover that's passed.

Twelve hours in and we're all sleeping; your friend says it's a trial version of dying.
So don't let us go tonight, and keep praying:
You have faith in god, and we have faith in you.