The day you died, I was sitting on my bed
listening to ****** post-punk on YouTube,
wondering whether a boy that, in retrospect, really ******
was going to call me back.

We were fourteen years old. I thought about death a lot less then.
You sent me your eulogy over text and I hesitated –
one second, five seconds, ten –
and when I called you, I got your voicemail.

You hardly ever know when you save someone.
You always know when you don’t.

I am twenty-one years old now,
and there are still some days when everything I have
feels like a stolen luxury –
something I cannot afford. Something I do not deserve to have.

I am still here and you are not,
and this is something that I have trouble with, even now.
I’m married now. I have a nice apartment,
a husband and two dogs who love me unconditionally.
I moved from the barren desert of our home
to the heavy-hanging green of the South,
ivy on the street signs, humidity in the air.

I would give anything for you to have this.
I would give everything for you to see the after,
the peace and light that came eventually, finally.

I can never shake the feeling that it’s you, and not me,
who should be here.

I take deep breaths in the forest by the coast,
the trees too thick for any sun to shine through.
I still hear your laugh echoing through them.