Your death was like a blemish to the doctors, nothing an expensive cream and five business days couldn’t fix. But to me, your death was a wart that I’ve had since senior year, from the worry and the stress. I rub my thumb over it, to remember, to soothe, to hurt, to heal, to do it all over again. And again and again. You are my cycle, my scheduled grief. I rub my thumb over you and today I don’t feel a thing.