Jeffrey

Not Jeff,
I never called you that
in fourth grade,

over a decade ago
you’ve become my habit;
your spiked-up hair, your thin
baritone voice, and the scent
you leave behind in my house
every Saturday-

you’ve indulged me,
corrupted me
with your sarcastic meanness;
I can no longer walk past
a fat lady without laughing,
remembering the things you’d say.

I even remember the marks on
your face like a constellation,
celestial like your Chinese name—Jin Yu,
brave universe; it fits
the devious boy I grew up with.

You are not my best friend—you are
my brother,

I miss the Yu that wears preppy polos and
pajamas that look like rags, I miss
the way you smell without cologne,

every weekend
when we’re at Uno’s
while you made fun of the waiter,
I’d take a deep breath
and relax knowing you’re comfortable
as yourself with me.

But things changed since
you moved away,
now every time I see you
I’m surprised, not

by your four hundred dollar sneakers;

There are no more
sad stories about girls
and no more cigarette smoke
to drown out tears that
you don’t want me
to see.

Even the constellation on your face,
the one I memorized, the Yu,
erased
by laser surgery.