you have a tattoo on your left arm that i have never seen before. and now i know that i will never get to ask about it. two teenagers found dead shot to death in a car. you followed me on instagram a few years ago. and i, knowing we haven’t talked in years, thought i should reach out. nothing would be different if i had, but i’m still thinking about it. we probably would’ve talked for a day, maybe two, small talk, i would've learned how you’ve changed. but i never said hello because you were so different, and i didn't know what to say and i thought i would always be able to ask. when we were kids we used to sit outside in your garage and play dolls. we prank-called my brother’s friends on his old phone. your birthday party is still the only time i’ve ever been to six flags. you told me that when the sun is out and it starts raining they say it's the devil beating his wife. and now i’m grieving in a way that’s more nostalgic than sad, because 18 is far too young to die and i just wish i would’ve asked you how you’ve been.
subtitle: i never said goodbye, but i never said hello, either.