midnight vodka shots
and dares more often than truths
painted you as the atypical role model.
you were never really an ideal,
but that doesn't stop everyone from gilding
your every feature—your every flaw.
you were as close to happiness as anyone
i'd ever had the chance to meet,
and you were on the cusp of the future,
its endless promise glimmering in your every motion;
now, you are a part of the past.

how does one live through such death,
sudden and uncalled for in its savagery?

ghosts haunt the corridors,
your lachrymose comrades defying authority
in remembrance of your image.
do they weep, i wonder,
for what they have lost—
or do they mourn what the world has sacrificed?

it could have been anyone,
and that is what paints this surreal.

it could have been anyone's body,
anyone's future, anyone's dreams;
instead, it is your life spattered across the canvas
a macabre viewing for the masses.

you embodied
the vaunted invincibility of youth, its folly,
its breathless passion and exuberance—
and it was this vibrance
for which you paid the ultimate price.
in death, you have found the immortality
sought so avidly in life's nuances.