I find that I am thinking about you.

About how things ended,

and the phone call that was laced with too much truth.

I keep wishing I'd gone back to your place.

Sat you down,

and screamed my secret thoughts to your face.

But I didn't want to be that friend.

With useless platitudes,

and earnest words to make you feel again.

I know the things I should have said would hurt.

But we'd fight through it,

and you'd be here instead of in the dirt.

I can't pass by your apartment without seeing all the blood

on the concrete where the pistol stopped your pain.

Sometimes it seems so pointless that a dream could die so young

when both of us had so much left to gain.

I only wish I could show you the difference that you've made

in who I am and how I can survive.

Thinking of you hurts my lungs but I keep on because

you showed me the true pain in suicide.