Poets Never Die

5 years ago.  Today.  Happy birthday.

To simply put it, I lived and you are gone.  Sometimes, I feel guilty.  Why are you the one that is gone and me the one that still exists?

You always told me I had tragic eyes – beautifully tragic.  You’d hold my face in your hands and tell me I was going to do great things in this world.  And that no matter what, you could always see past the façade I put up against the world.  You meant it.  You meant everything you said to everyone.

We’d stay up late, drinking, writing poetry, talking philosophy, and playing card games.

When we got drunk together, we’d go dancing.  It was passionate and delicate and powerful and sad and happy and everything – every emotion all at once.  You were always good at that.  Always.  Remember those times in college I’d make terrible decisions and you’d go through great lengths just to make sure I was okay?

You were the greatest with the spoken word.  So much so, you’d challenge people to give you a word.  Just one.  Then, out of the thin, stale, and alcohol ridden air, you’d speak in rhythms and rhymes in a way I’d never heard anyone before.  Remember the time I gave you the word orange?  Somehow, you managed to make everything rhyme with orange.

I wish I could remember it better.

Three people this year received the memorial scholarship at CU Denver in your name.  The afterword says that they exemplify your spirit.  I wish they could meet you and really feel your spirit.

Even in the darkest of moments in your head, you never stopped smiling.  It’s been 5 years.  I miss that smile.  You were never a failure.  Ever.  You were amazing.  Fucking brilliant.

Sometimes, I’m angry with you because you left and I still managed to survive.  But in the end, I just desperately miss you.

My only hope is that when you jumped, you were smiling, finally knowing you were achieving the impossible:

You were flying.


© /skin/ /ˈpōətrē/


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