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Jul 2018
This is for my best friend
You were beautiful, and loved, you had so much left to give
I can't believe it's already been two years
No matter where I go you still find a way to make your presence clear
I still carry the weight of your life everywhere
Like whenever I see sunflowers I run to the spot they live just to see if you are there
When you told me I had a gift
I swear your face is scarred into the back of my eyelids because I see you when I sleep
I see you in my dreams just doing everyday mundane things or maybe smiling
When I got the phone call from Eileen, I dropped down onto my knees and screamed, bursting into tears
Realizing we are weaker than we feel or seem is pretty humbling
When people ask how I'm doing now, it's more an instinctual reaction to reply "well me, I'm just fine"
Blame it on an indifferent demeanor, or on an educational system that forces teachers to teach students to fill in bubbles and not use their minds
I guess they don't read what is said in between the lines
That I'm overwhelmed by the presence of your absence
Unanswered questions on repeat of why'd this happen, why it happened
When we all know I was far more reckless and less loved than you
I had a conversation with someone I love greatly the other day and we were talking about why I never feel like I'm doing enough
And it didn't occur to me that I can never do enough because now that you're gone I'm living for two
I love fully, my life is a vivid picture of possibilities and realized dreams of being of service to others in recovery from this disease
But vivid pictures stand in Stark contrast to the piece of my heart that you took when you left, now a hole shaded grey in what was once a beautiful place
Just like yesterday, I was speaking to a group of people in a detox and it was just a room full of people and they all had your face
"Live for yourself, don't live vicariously", a lofty idea hammered home through a million motivational speakers and yet
You don't really have a choice, because if you don't live through me in my mind you might not even be alive at all
Timothy Kenda
Written by
Timothy Kenda  Worcester
(Worcester)   
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