Bipolar Order

Half of my genes came from the man
who was knitted from the wool of symptoms
detailed on page 123 of the DSM-V.
He was so much more than that,
it should go without saying,
but there is so much to say -
his words were often an endless stream
of slow-paced inner musings
spoken at whatever audience he'd secured (trapped) -
his dissection of the various methods of securing an object to a flatbed
or the only approved approach to changing one's oil;
on a good day,
it might be the intricate outline
of his plans to start another business -
from a dating hotline
to firewood (chopped/delivered)
to a prescient but unactualized taxi alternative.
My words -
an endless stream of teenage drama
and delight -
(Who's dating whom?
What to wear to the dance?
Will he call?)
never aimed at him,
meant for anyone else -
crunched under foot
and stripped of their ebullience
by his arrival.

And then I let the other half of my genes
(perfect and whole in every way)
be the bridge between us
a relief for us all,
except her, perhaps.
We always have enough to say
to fill every moment
of the time we carve out
for each other
through the week,
from across town or,
for most of my adulthood,
across the country.
Our connection didn't tether him,
only us before, after, always.
And then
he dove out of existence
on 1/23.
The page is still in the book,
but his story has ended.