Death is so final.
You don’t get to say one more thing.
You don’t get to sit by him one more time,
as he makes you a Bloody Mary
and enchiladas for your friends.
You don’t get to tell him you watched the movie he recommended,
and that you actually did love it.
Or to ask him how his new meds are working,
or how his date with the waitress went.
You don’t get to ask him about the school you want to open together,
or the townhouse in Baltimore.
You can’t sit on the back patio together one final time,
and laugh when he makes fun of you for holding the lighter upside down.
You can’t ask him to explain his novel a little further,
or tell you just a little more about Batgirl.
You can’t thank him for all the shit he ever showed you
and all the times he pushed you out of your comfort zone,
for good or for bad.
You can’t ever tell him just how much you looked up to him.
Some days I wake up and wish that I could have a bit of his mania,
because I want to feel what it’s like to move without stopping,
to cook without hesitating
and to love without feeling self-conscious.
All I can do is preserve the memory of him laughing
but not just his regular laugh,
the laugh he did when something was clearly off,
but it was too funny not to laugh about.
He would wrinkle up the side of his face,
cock his head slightly up,
and laugh even though maybe he shouldn’t have.
All I can do is think these things,
and whisper them into the silence,
and hope that in this weird, fucked-up world
he gets the message.