You’d been out of prison for 25 days

after pulling 7.5 years, I’d kept a friend

up all night, ramblings from the depth

of my racing, almost incoherent, mind.

I called you, the day before had been

as close to perfect as dating someone

such as myself could be, yet you were

laughing at my obsessive, rapid words.

Here’s the fucked up part, you told me

that you were dressing, you’d see me

soon, after all, we’d made plans meant

to last, so I hung up, jumped into my

shower just long enough to wash my

hair, add conditioner, lather my body,

shaved my legs as an after thought, and

quickly dried off, dressed, when my pal

mentioned a blue Ford truck pulling in

my driveway, your brother with his

girlfriend, he knocked on my door, I

carelessly believed he was joking with

me, so I hesitated, saying something so

silly, until she jumped from his truck to

beat her fist against the wooden door,

screaming out for me to open it, you

were dead, a calm anger overtook me

as I jerked open the screen door, I can

vaguely remember telling her to stop,

not to say another crazy word, and for

once she listened, then I heard him say

you were gone, overdosed on fentanyl.

Barely recall collapsing onto him, my

chest felt as if something heavy landed

on it, crushing my lungs as my heart

broke, then he left to get your mama.

In the time it took me to shower, you

were never going to return, the last

words spoken to me were, “I love you.

See ya soon,” I’ve been told to think of

positive things, like I told you I loved

you too, we had spent our time being

happy, together in a surreal dream like

state, my manic depression will not

allow me to believe in that nonsense.

Instead I self medicate, blocking happy

with the sadness, I don’t want to start

crying, I’m afraid with this devastating

blow that I somehow won’t ever stop

until my heart explodes from breaking.

Heaven only knows how I could live.

If my tears didn’t drown me, I’d end up

on the brink of no return, where the

only options are a mental hospital, or

an attempt at suicide planned correct.

Some days I wonder how I managed to

make it one more day without hearing

your voice, knowing I’ll one day forget

how you sounded, your smile, your

touch, making your loss unbearable.