Suddenly death exists like an unwanted house guest. You make eggs for it in the mornings and try not to scream when it drinks the last cup of coffee without filling the pot. It uses up all the good towels and leaves wet prints on the bathroom floor that soak through the heels of your socks. You step in it every damn time.
Death is the secret that we all know but refuse to talk about—the look in your eyes when you’re focusing on the space behind her ear, desperate to change the subject.
Yesterday we were playing double dutch and today I’m holding your hand, trying not to make your sadness my own, like it somehow belongs to me. It’s not mine, I only catch glimpses of it, you’re the one that tucks it into bed each night and wakes it up in the morning.
It’s tragic how I can just walk away.
We’re almost 30 so I guess that means that we start to lose people, sometimes slowly and sometimes all at once. It’s impossible to tell which is more agonizing.
I think about you every day but I can’t help finding reasons to avoid you.
Because this is the last thing you need—me falling apart, when that’s your job.