Four years later, 

I still walk into this home 

expecting you to be here.

Four years later, 

and I still shake everytime 

I see a cigarette or hear a cough.

Four years later, 

I don’t even know whether 

I can trust my memories of you


It’s been four years, and 

I still remember how I found out,

still remember what I wore to

the funeral, still remember the

book I was reading, still

remember trying not to cry

trying not to cry

trying not to cry- I

remember the car I went in. 

Remember seeing my friend

outside my house, wondering 

if his shock mirrored my own, and

I still remember every



of that day

but I can barely remember your voice.

I barely remember you, 

barely remember anything- 

what we talked about, what you 

teased me about, what

made me know that as long 

As you were around, I was safe;

I just don’t remember anymore.

And I’m not sure how to.

Not sure how to

keep what little I have of you

from disappearing.


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