To a friend who no longer talks to me,
Hey. I know you probably won’t read this,
but I’m gonna write it anyway.
I don’t know why you’re gone, but it must be a good reason.
Otherwise, you wouldn’t have just stopped talking to me, right?
I still think about all the good times we had.
When we would sit in your car in front of my house,
and we would just talk. It didn’t matter what we were talking about,
but your company was enough.
I also remember when we would say nothing,
because sometimes the silence was more powerful than any words,
because we knew that any combination of vowels and consonants were
not as important as each other’s presence.
I remember when you told me that you didn’t really have that many friends,
when you trusted me with things you felt uncomfortable even mentioning.
I remember when we would sit in your house and just listen to music,
ignoring the world in favor of an endless flurry of pop-punk.
I don’t remember ever giving you a reason to just give up.
All I ever notice now is the knife in my back.
I’m not really mad, but I do want to know: why?
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