He comes back to haunt me at the most inconvenient times.
Memories stop me on sidewalks like invisible walls.
He's in the colors of shirts he used to wear or the way soap bubbles meet a drain. He's inexplicably in songs we never heard together.
There are so many people on this earth who aren't him and it's just not fair.
We're told not to speak ill of the dead, but I can't help but exercise my imagination, telling myself that, had he lived, we would probably hate each other by now.
We'd have grown apart, our insufferable habits and idiosyncrasies finally doing us in. He popped his knuckles and was rude to waitstaff.
It's a self-preservation thing.
It's a new year—and I've finally decided instead of trying to leave the past in the past, it's best to let these memories weave themselves into my life and have their fleeting moments.
We'd have grown apart, our insufferable habits and idiosyncrasies finally doing us in. He popped his knuckles and was rude to waitstaff.
It's a self-preservation thing.
It's a new year—and I've finally decided instead of trying to leave the past in the past, it's best to let these memories weave themselves into my life and have their fleeting moments.
