It is with a heavy heart
that I take up my pen to write these
parting words.
In an incoherent and,
as I deeply feel,
an entirely inadequate fashion,
I will endeavor to give some account
of my strange experiences in your company
from the chance which first brought us together
at the period of middle school
into speculation of the future.

I was so alone,
and I owe you so much.
You took me from a sad little creature,
with a psychosomatic timidness,
to a beautiful risk taker.
I was your sidekick from the very first breath.
A bond over dead authors and horses
is little to start a friendship on,
but you didn’t hesitate to latch on
and after you made me your Soldier
I wasn’t letting go either
and I live for every,
“Always good to see you, Watson.”

When school wasn’t enough for your
over-active imagination
we braved the streets of Bel Air,
which sorta looks like London
if it’s raining and you squint enough.
We talked about the crimes of
online adolescent authors and
the best way to tackle the network
of their tight-net communities.

But the worst crimes don’t occur in that web.
You make a dent in the dreadful cauldron
of teenage apathy and backstabbing
because you’ve never been apathetic a day in your life
and I supposed we’ve both been stabbed enough
to just let our blood boil instead of bleed out,
and even when we’re battered and bruised
we know the perfect kitchen chem.-lab remedy.
Anything from a cup of coffee
to a day of research.

“They didn’t have umbrellas at Gettysburg!”
isn’t the most conventional encouragement -
but then nothing about you has ever been conventional -
and it will take more than an inconvenience like the
weather to keep me for coming to your aid.

Graduation will not be your
Reichenbach Fall -
College will not be our three year separation
as you tackle the web of
Towson University’s English Department.
If we’re never flatmates we’re doing it wrong
London is only a squint away
and we’ll find our own Baker Street, because
I shall ever regard you as the best and wisest person I’ve ever known.