Poem: My friend sent me a photo

My friend sent me a photo

from the grave

of a writer
he knows I too love.
He is not
like me, by which I mean
he is not a writer.
I do not know
if he is even a reader
any longer.  He sends me
the photo
and I take time
to read the headstone
and realize
who he is visiting with.
I am certain you are wondering
who it was
but it seems private,
or intimate is the better word.
I cannot explain.
He shared it with me
but that is not enough
for me to feel
it is mine,
though I doubt 
he would care,
and I know that.
It is not only him
but the dead, as well,
if that makes sense
or if it does not,
because I know,
but that is living,
I think, or maybe
it is dying

which is the same
or just the result.
But that is too dramatic.
It only feels
appropriate these days,
the same way
it seems right, in this moment,
that he would spend his time
on that excursion,
and, as well,
that he 
would send 
a souvenir to me.