I'll Be Dead in a Year

Beneath me you lie in a realm of dirt.
I don't like to remember you
because I don't like to feel.
I prefer to think of this mound
as someone else's grave.
Someone who's long forgotten
and doesn't care that I am tromping
atop of them. Someone who
appreciates the flowers I leave
because I cannot speak.
The words just cannot form.

I have no idea what I'd say
if I thought you'd actually hear.

I miss you? I love you?
Or rather I loved you?
Does everything end here
in this lonesome graveyard?
Where stones line up
like a battalion -a thousand
reminders of death.
I wonder if I'm the selfish one.

You told me, monotonously,
you'd be dead in a year.
I was nineteen, I had no idea.
I knew you, were sick,
from a life of bad habits.
But I, somehow, didn't expect
the consequences.

Perhaps I was a fool,
because that's better
than accepting the truth.
Perhaps one day I'll admit
the things I really feel.
Perhaps I'll cry and scream,
maybe I'll return here
and read you a letter.
Tell you how much I miss
your Santa-Claus laugh
and your massive hugs.
And maybe I'll thank you
for always helping me
and offering advice.

But as for now, I'm bitter.
Your death shattered our mirror
and now I cannot see myself
reflected in your eyes.

I have no idea who I am anymore.

I am like a lone weed
scorching in the sun
without your shadow
looming beside me.