Sometimes I remember
the way his hands felt in mine
while we picked out movies or played
in the rain. He would always smoke
but he'd say, "Is it cool if I...?"
before lighting up.
Because he cared a little bit.
Sometimes I walk past someone
who wears the same cologne as he did,
and I think of pillows and
the softest white blankets in the world.
Sometimes I see his parents
out in public
and they always stop to talk to me.
They say my name with the same accent he had
but it's not the same without his lips
so close to my own.
Sometimes I hurt
because it was so nice to have a person
to call my own and put a claim to,
to know that if I needed the strongest hugs
in the middle of the night, he'd be there.
But then I think
of how much he loved drugs
and how much I love sunflowers
and how those things don't go together.