I keep writing poems about you.
Because I don't want to post
Some dumb comment to your page.
That impersonation of you that exists
Only so that people who loved you
Can feel like you're there.
But you aren't.
And they're just posting because
It makes them feel better.
Like my poems.

I wish I could believe they were for you.
That you could read them,
Feel them,
Somewhere.
But I don't believe that.
They're for me.
Me, me, me.
In this moment, your death is about me.
The moment that my pen
Or my hands
Or my thumbs
Put my thoughts to words,
I embrace myself.
Because I can't embrace you anymore.

It's lonely.
This pattern, this cycle.
And maybe if I knew your friends
Would see my thoughts,
I might feel better.
But I can't do that.
I can't show them all that I'm selfish, too.
Even though I know I am.
Even though there's no other way to be.

I can't truly honor you
Except in accepting how broken
You left me.
And maybe that once I wasn't selfish,
Because of how selfish I am now.

We lose things,
People,
And then we go on
Until one day,
We're the ones that are lost.