My heart feels squeezed out when I write about you.  
Lighter, and more free to beat against its veins, and ligaments, and bones.  I need to let go of as much as I can so that I can thrive into the future, free of the weight of having known you and your passing.  
When you would cry to me,
when you swallowed all those pills
I never felt you were a burden.  
The weight of having known you can crush me some days.  
I cannot go on
a pancake of a person.

So, I unload your memory onto pages of dry pulp and dye
and pray you cannot seep back beneath my skin
where you sometimes make a home.  

Pages of you act like scripture  for a god I don’t believe in,
that neither of us believed in.  

God does not exist,
the afterlife is not real
pages are all that house you now.  



I cling to my un-belief,
but don’t have faith enough
in absolutes, to feel
convinced that you’re gone.