Ode to the Fallen: A Funeral for the Right Beat

You brave little bastard,
riding shotgun in my pocket
while my head spun like a laundry drum.
You didn’t ask for this.
You just wanted to connect,
to whisper calendars and chaos into my ear
while I faked my way through another Teams call.

You blinked blue through bad days,
held fast in the wind on dog walks,
cut through small talk like a ninja.
And now—
washed
rinsed
spun dry
and
silent—
you join the graveyard of
“shit I relied on that let go too soon.”

But let it be known:
you didn’t quit.
You drowned.
A martyr to distraction.
A casualty of grief’s fog.

Rest, soldier.
Your partner fights on,
blinking, lonely,
playing only the left channel
of my heartbreak.