Bullet with Butterfly Wings

Today would have been John’s 26th birthday.

And even though I didn’t think about it much this weekend, it was my first thought upon my wake.

It’s so strange to think that he will never have another birthday and that, in my head, he never got past 19 even though he lived to 24. And its strange that his younger sister, despite her public plea at the funeral for his friends to stop living the lifestyle that killed him, is still in and out of rehab and jail and seems not to remember saying the words. And it’s strange that it was almost exactly ten years ago that I would lie with my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. Or tease him for only being able to play one song on the guitar. It’s strange that we were so young then. And that I feel so different yet, so much the same.

Pookie spent the day crying at her desk, listening to depressing music. I haven’t even said his name out loud. I feel like I should do something. Pay respects. Something.

That one song he knew how to play though, playing right now. In my head. In my heart.

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