Between one deed and another
I remember that
Not much really happened.

We both went on
To study great things
And try and do great things.
You painted more
And I wrote less
Until all I could see before me
Were text books detailing
This body function
And that body organ.

You went on to
Teach at a school for people like you –
The ones who appreciated
The little things in life.

I worked my ass off,
Day in day out
With barely any sleep,
With the lives of many on my bloody hands.

And we were still friends.
We talked
And we met for coffee
And we sat on beaches and
Sat in libraries together
And talked of times
When we had more time
(But never of
That one time…)

And still the years dragged on
And nothing ever really came up
Of that shoe they found floating around
And a missing person never found
And a murder weapon never buried
And a stain of blood
Lady Macbeth would be proud of.

And we remained friends…
Like we had no other choice.
Like our bond only strengthened
When we tainted it with blood
(Guilty blood, but still…);
Like our bond only stayed
Because we feared
That if we were to break it
Bad things would happen…

But of course that would never happen.
We were friends;
We shared cigarettes
And birthday whiskey
And the blood of a man
On our hands.

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