You left us on a Thursday, but we decided to wait until the following Monday to do anything with you.
You left your room a mess, more than usual, with sloppy scribbles on the walls about accidents and incidents. Even though your mother always griped and reminded you to be tidy and firm you ignored her because, well, you'll always be who you always were. Your clothes all thrown in the right corners, the cereal bowls filled with mold under your bed. The way you stapled your character through tangled cables and caricature. I loved you every minute of it.
I remember you showing me your worst at the Friday night lights, behind the bleachers. Between cheering and littered beer and soda bottles, you told me something that destroyed my optimism about things. I didn't even notice the plastic crunched under my feet and some kind of snack bar paste that ruined my favorite sneakers. I always loved learning, but not after what you taught me about what he taught you. I guess that's what teachers are for. But he took much more than he ever gave to you on a chalkboard.
I didn't go to your funeral, I was too busy downing the wine in the parking lot I stole from the local supermarket.
And after everyone had left the scene, I was so torn up I went to your tombstone, alone, screaming.
It was later on, maybe eleven pm at night.
There wasn't anyone around, not a soul in sight.
Just you and I. Part of me hopes your spirit was there. Another part of me hopes you didn't witness my blood red eyes and dribbling nose. Anyone could have tasted the rage in the air.
I don't want you to see me how I was, how I am now.
I want you to be in peace at it's best, as one should when they're resting like that and such. It's just that, this was too much for me, it tore me to pieces, ripped me to shreds. I hope they bury me next to you. The decision has been a struggle. But I don't want you to be so lonely down there, so I'm coming to join you. Because now I feel unfinished, like half of a puzzle.