Some days, I think I see the dead
. At first, I refuse to catch myself, I get excited.. The familiarity
of a posture, of hair, style of dress. It fools me. Momentarily.
I know better
, I've been here before and seen it for what it is, impossible. Still, I can't help but think they hide
from me, but are not truly absent
. I know their songs, their smells. The second boy I ever kissed left the scent of Old Spice
on my sheets, he taught me the words to Waterfalls,
when I never would have known.
Things changed and we became so different, not even close. but I went to his funeral
. I listened to other former friends
fight over who grieved
most. I fought tears
- it had been a long time - I wasn't sure I had earned the pain
The other one was worse
, he followed so quickly. and I never really knew him, we weren't even friends. It affected me more to see that so few people had been. And I was used to our routines
of passing and never speaking. I delude myself into thinking those rhythms continue.
They follow me, appear
when I don't expect it, before I remind myself of the facts. So I do a double take
, and stare hard at boys who are never who they shouldn't be.