Don’t Go

Your death took everything.

I forgot how to smile, how to laugh,

forgot the meaning of joy

and forgot how I'd found it in the first place.

Your death took everything.

I forgot how cleanliness felt

as I dug into my own flesh

and tried to excavate all of the pain trapped inside.

Your death took everything.

I forgot what life was like before you,

and wasn't sure that life could even go on without you.

I forgot about the old notes I wrote "just in case."

I sat and asked why until I didn't know the meaning of the word anymore.

I cried until I didn't know what the point of the tears even was anymore.

I screamed until I couldn't hear the sound of my own voice anymore.

The pain of losing you was too much,

so, when you came to haunt me

I welcomed you with open arms.

I never told you what had happened.

You sat there, blissfully unaware and,

in all the joy I found in seeing any version of you sitting next to me,

I told you nothing was wrong.

You were sitting next to me again,

showing me the same friendship.

We laughed at the same jokes

and cried at the same movies.

Reminiscing on the past, I forgot what the loss was like.

Now, here you sit. The dust has settled.

You know that you are not the same, and you don't know why.

You no longer speak to me.

You are no longer spending the night in the amber glow of my bedroom.

The only sounds I hear come from the kitchen utensil drawer.

I found a suicide note written in morse code

on the misty bathroom mirror.

Your death took everything.