It's been two months since he died,
I don't think about him everyday,
he comes back in flashes and I can almost hear him laugh,
and it gets hard to hold the tears but I do anyway,
I stop, close my eyes, take a deep breath and continue with my life.

It's not just missing him that hurts,
I think what keeps me sane is that the last thing I told him was
"'Congratulations! I'm so proud of you and I love you, see you in July"
But what makes me mad is that right now is July, and that promise fell through.
There's this logic part of me that knows it was not my fault,
that reminds me he was sick,
that he was trying his best, that he was taking his pills,
until one day he took them all.
There's this other part that keeps wondering what if?
What if I had called him randomly?
What if instead of July it had been May?
What if I had asked again how he was doing?
And what hurts the most I think, is that I'm a doctor, just like he was; I deal with life and death and pain, and I couldn't cure the pain he was feeling inside.
And I don't know if he knows that he took a part of all of us,
that killing himself killed us too.
But even when I hold back the tears because he is gone, I cant hold back the smile because he was part of my life,
and I guess that would've made him happy.

I'm exhausted.
I'm physically and emotionally drained.
I find myself looking to nowhere, thinking of nothing, empty
and I still don't know where all these tears are coming from.
I'm not mad, I don't feel rage, I don't feel anything,
nothing but this sharp pain in my chest that comes and goes,
and the sudden knot in my throat as the smallest thing reminds me of you.
But no, I'm not mad at you. Stop asking me that.

I miss writting
letting words flow.
I miss the rush of catching all the ideas when my hand was too slow.
I miss the need of putting on paper what I felt,
of having to stop everything before I could forget.
I miss feeling inspired by the smallest thing,
a song, a phrase, your voice, your hair.
We took different ways
and you took away my words
but I kept all the love.

I've seen it all.
All his fears, all his sins.
I've seen him grow,
I've seen him fall.
Laugh, and cry and crawl.
I've seen him all,
I've known him all.
I've loved him all.
I still do.

I thought it was strange
not feeling the need to fill pages with your name.
But as I look back I see
how moments with you overlaped with memories of him.
Maybe I should've given it time,
not putting three years of pressure on a three month trial.
But there has to be a reason this is my first poem about you,
and not even this one is completely yours.

Dear diary:
He said he loved me,
that he was full of regret.
But, dear diary,
it was too late.