You were worth making art out of melodic words, weren't you? But somehow I couldn't stop writing about the aftermath of someone's storm. And for that, I am truly sorry.
I remember you were that band guy who so beautifully struck drums that even my inexpressive veins danced at every beat, that even my defensive walls collapsed, that even my unreadable emotion became everybody's open book— a sweet, tragic thing: these episodes never happened.
You were almost that answer every mad mind so long desired. I almost stopped mastering the art of stomping on people's hearts before they do. I almost dug a burial ground for the corpses of my pouring-love-out-to-someone-who-only-knows-how-to-spit-it-back-out.
What I am sure about is this: I never want to feel it again. I can only look at another tombstone with your name engraved on it and smell the scent of flowers I stole from some rotten body, while the wind plays symphonies with the endless, "Almosssst, almossst, almosst, almost."