I was going to write about that time I caught my friend
masturbating the summer before 8th grade,
but then I log on to Facebook and see a woman has died,
a woman I don’t know,
but share 42 mutual friends with.
I was going to write about how I stopped by my friend’s house
to visit one sunny morning, peeked in the window
and saw him stroking his dick while on his parents’ living room couch.
And though it gave me no pleasure to see it,
I still looked.
I was going to write something entirely different,
like how when I finally rang his doorbell,
I got embarrassed and took off running,
ashamed to have witnessed
such a private and solitary act.
I was going to write about that, but now I’m scanning this woman’s profile,
this woman—with 42 mutual friends—who died,
and I’m reading all the posts she made,
about the tumors and the doctors
and how she desperately wanted a visitor.