Falling Out of Contact with Old Friends

I still call you Mango though you're a father of two and life's tectonics split our continent made a horizontal out of grief though longing is aging into redwood though we barely text though we want to though your name is Thomas

In an old café, I still hear the accents but none of the words recognize me—verbal bones have calcified, the future packed away with autumn leaves. Your voice was one irreplaceable symphony, now I only hear its echo in the emptiness of the chairs. Most sins are initial, and your name remains capitalized in the letter I never send.