what comes to mind (written in January)

I couldn’t know he was/we were going to be a certain gift,
broken love, friendship forever. One summer dusk,
tattered denim cuffs hanging off the curb, me watching as B,
straight blond hair hung over grey eyes,
taught himself to play guitar in the glow
of a Burger King sign and the old clock tower,
each slip of carefully picked sound a ribbon of silk,
as he taught me how to find my melody, open with it,
free my voice, with no further explanation,
no self-abnegation. I could earn a smile, an impression
that imperfection paled in the face of harmony.