I remember it as the day the stars had all hung themselves. The day the wind didn't shake me. The day God died. The day we buried you. The funeral home where the service was held was the only house you had ever wanted to inhabit and the way you laid comfotably in your casket eased my mind by reminding me you were finally home. The sound of shuffling feet and distorted murmurs as people filed through the doors to find a seat vaguely resembled the quiet traffic coming and going from our favorite coffee shop. The strangers there always seemed more familiar to you than your own reflection. They still seem more familiar to me than your broken body. As everyone was seated a perfect portrait of fallacy sprung to life. The falsehood of intrinsic compassion went unnoticed by everyone but me. Vigilance toward hypocrisy was something you taught me. The stagnant smell of formaldehyde filled the air, but I'm unsure as to whether it was that which tightened my throat or the sour taste of resentment tinged with longing that filled my throat as I stared at your purple petal eyelids. The same taste your lips always carried when they were pressed to mine. I listened carefully as a pastor who never met you spoke of all the memories you shared. I think the audience was crying more for the life you never had than the necklace you wore proudly in your casket. It is the color of long nights and empty bottles we both collapsed into. Bottles I drained before I arrived. Bottles that will always be fuller than I feel no matter how many times I consume their contents. You liked me hollow anyway. I watched as each person said their final goodbye to the fictional boy with the apocryphal life inhabiting the space that should have belonged to you. An entire obsequies for someone who died long before you took your last breath. I'm still sorry that he stole your show.