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  • Writer's picturekaekingstories

For Luke

Updated: Jun 14, 2020

A spoken piece for a friend who left the world too soon . . .

I never thought I would write this.

I like to pretend you never existed,

but somehow you’re still rooted in mind,

a wilted flower hanging on to my thoughts by swiftly fleeting memories.

It's been more than two years since you died.

I thought I dealt with it.

I thought I made my peace but pictures of us still tears me to pieces,

I still shed tears for you.

One of my best friends didn’t talk to me for over a month-

she said she needed space but somehow I freaked out thinking what if?

What if she- too is sinking into a space she feels she can’t crawl out of?

That she’s become more ghost than human- never fully anywhere but alone?

What if I’m not there for her, like I wasn’t for you?

That’s what your suicide did to me, to us.

Left us scrambling to assemble your broken picture, trying to solve your pain.

I ask myself a lot of maybes.

Maybe if I was better friend, maybe if I kept in touch.

Maybe if the last time we touched,

I squeezed some reassurance in you,

showed you my love,

maybe if I admitted my crush, maybe if I called, maybe if I never knew you at all.

I was jealous of you.

You got the Harvard days filled with the crazy dorm stories,

you were brilliant, charming, sweet and curious.

Life was brighter because of you- I wish I told you that,

I wish I made sure you knew.

Remember when you would finish my lunch for me?

I never told you but I started packing extra food for you, who knew Chinese boys loved Jollof rice and stew?

Remember the time we danced ridiculously in gym class.

You kept stepping on my toes, we laughed and we waltzed,

neither of us knew the steps, but somehow I could always find myself with you.

Remember when I tried to change your hair, I put it up in a bun,

we posed like we were thugs,

even though we were so far from tough

just children of immigrants with dreams

of picket fenced suburbia.

For all of our laughs, through all of our crazy,

I’m desperately grasping memories of quiet, beautiful moments with you.

When you told me you wanted to be a professor,

when we talked about God,

when we didn’t have to say anything at all.

Every second you fade more, I want to be at the shore with you, enjoying the New Orleans coastline

I never thought it would be our last time.

I miss you. I missed you. I’m missing you.

I can’t write more than wishes and memories,

maybes and what if’s.

Sometimes I hate you.

I hate you for being inconsiderate and selfish.

For thinking of no one else.

For thinking your life is only for yourself.

You belonged to your family,

you belonged to your friends.

You belonged to me.

When you’re running on empty and you can’t fill yourself, that’s when you let us love you more.

We could have filled you up.

We could have told you that your life was worth it.

That you were worth living for.

Sometimes I wonder if I get to mourn you. I couldn’t even go to your funeral.

I hope you saw every heart that broke when you left this world.

A piece of mine that I hope you’re holding on to.

I hope to see you in heaven Luke.

image by Jr Korpa

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