the ordinary things death took away

i'd like to think that you're still at your own place, going on random trips like you always did. perhaps that's also how i've learned to excuse your absence from my life. maybe one of these days, you'll call me and tell me you've adopted another dog, saved a little money, and finally fixed the vehicle so you can take me to college.

but none of that is true, is it?

the truth is that one afternoon, a butterfly flew around my balcony, and i found myself sobbing like a motherfucker on the floor. spiritual people say that butterflies are our loved ones coming back to visit, and i wanted so desperately to believe that it was you.

i've come to understand that drinking yourself to death might be the slowest and most painful kind of suicide. i think about that sometimes, about how much you must have been hurting, and how little i knew about it. i wish things had been different for you.

i went looking for shelter in some very strange places after all. i've met all kinds of people. i think a part of me died somewhere along the way, perhaps more than once. there were times when i tried to make that feeling permanent. and through all of it, you weren't there.

nobody likes it when i get dark. mẹ once told me that i am so much like you, and that it made her miserable because she knew she couldn't help me. i wonder if you would've understood the parts of me that she couldn't. if you would've recognized your own sadness in mine.

there was a time when i could sit behind you, hold on, and know that my father was taking me somewhere.

i wish we'd had one more ride.