Leftover blue Sour Patch Kids, and soda.
Day-long phone calls about nothing, sleepless nights on the internet, endless dms, a pact and an oath. Inside jokes so specific sometimes even we forgot their origin.
Tears and blood exchanged, heartbreaks, playlists, hair colors, tv shows, an innate understanding of one another.
Platonic love in its purest form.
A gap yawned open since you disappeared. I wonder and ruminate.
Many have tried to fit into it, none have succeeded. It was never their fault.
So, heavy and full of hope, I leave the blue candy at the bottom of the bag.
I don't drink screwdrivers anymore.
Our favorite songs still sit in an unforgotten but untouched playlist.
I possess cigarettes even though I quit socially smoking them.
Your drawings still hang on my wall.
I keep you around in spirit, a comfort and a wrenching nostalgia.
On your birthday, before I realized the date, I bought the candy.
I didn't opt for Coke, I stopped drinking soda years ago, but it crossed my mind.
On the way home, the song we used to sing each other in times of crisis played on my shuffle of over 3,000 liked songs.
I knew it was delusional to think it a sign. I sent a happy birthday message anyway.
Maybe the blue ones will get eaten again someday.
