Gone, gone, gone.
(Three of my friends died this past weekend, so this is for them. I hope you are somewhere beautiful. For Jen, for Don, and for Carrogen.) You're gone and I wish you weren't but you are, and I wish I could bring you back, but I can't, and the world is collapsing because, this would be the part where you find me and I know I will be okay. But you are gone, and you are six feet under the ground, and a million miles above me, probably playing with some stars, and getting the clouds caught in your hair, and talking to the moon, and you're happy. I hope you are. Or maybe you're not, because while I know that now you are safe, and I know that your body is under my feet, and and your blood will water the grass, and your casket will turn to dust, and so will you. But I hope you're happy, and I hope your veins are tying you to the asteroids that are scattered high up where you can see them. Wherever you are, I truly hope that it is beautiful. You're gone, and I know your bones will decay into the earth, and that your memories and the bruises on your shoulders from when you fell off the deck, and lay there laughing at yourself and at the world, and how you were alive, and how you didn't know you would be dead next week. But you are, and there is still probably alcohol on your lips, and that they are probably mingled with the yell that you yelled before you hit the other car in a flash of sparks and hell that you didn't deserve. Everything I say sounds hollow, and the words taste like steel, or icicles, and they are frozen and burning all at once, and everyone keeps saying how they loved you, and giving gifts to your parents, and I'm sure the kind words and the food baskets would fill the six foot hole, but it won't fill up all the space you took up in my mind. The memory of you and I making lincoln logs out of our own limbs, piling together, and woven like flowery veins, tangled. You are gone, and I want you here, and you are in a box of dark wood, and I can't even see your eyes, or see if you still have bruises on your arms, I can't see if you're smiling, but I doubt you are, and I still hope you are. My hands find someone's, and I clutch onto them, even though I have only met the owner briefly, but I need something to hold onto, and if I don't, I swear I will fall into the ground with you. I need to hold onto this earth, because I swear, I'm so drunk right now, and fiery beer is coursing through me, and I am burning all over my body, and our veins are melting together, and I hope they will keep me here. I can't stand to leave, I need you to be happy, but if you really are just a pile of bones, I don't want to know, because I want you to be happy, I want you to be somewhere beautiful. Please be somewhere beautiful.
