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.