If you can hear me right now I’m sorry this is too late

but the thing about open letters and the thing about poems and the thing about love is that

they’re infinite despite the scythe and despite divine greed

I swear to you I’ll write my knuckles raw if that means you’ll still be alive in some way living through the words and living through my memories and so maybe you’ll be infinite too despite the gun that took your life

So I’ve been procrastinating writing this

even though it seems like all I do is write to you nowadays

but whenever I sit down to write this in particular I feel an acid vat in my chest spilling into my stomach and throat solidifying into lead and morphing my limbs to mortar ready to be blown sky high

I’m practically begging

somebody blow me sky high

I might even pass heaven and wave to you there

oh, how sick I am of your greed

Mr. Grim Reaper have my friend and my truths: have your cake and eat it too

Mr. Grim Reaper picking off lives like dominoes in a dust storm

Mr. Grim Reaper doin’ God’s dirty work

But Maddie, where was your god in that instant was he not in the shadow of the scythe was he not watching your hand reach for the gun was he not present as you squeezed the trigger

No.

Only Mr. Grim Reaper it seems only Mr. Grim Reaper

No matter another one bites the dust

No matter, no matter Maddie this is your open letter not a poem for me or my demons but rather this is a poem to the demon that crawled in your throat and choked you out

Cause this is another attempt at closure

another attempt to finally come to terms

It’s just the thing that’s taking me so long to get the hell over it is that I never agreed to these terms

We made a promise do you remember do you remember that you said you’d call me and that I’d call you

So tell me why the phone lines were silent the night of April 14 and maybe I won’t wake up blaming myself tomorrow morning

No matter how angry I was and am

No matter how confused I was and am

I read the last line and everything falls away like a castle of dust and sand

“But I love you, and I’m sorry. I really, really, really love you.”

I want you to know I look for tiny parts of you in everyone I meet

I look for that smile

I look for that selflessness

I look for you in every shade of green because your eyes were the richest shade

I look for that laugh

I look for you in my scars and I look for you in the strength of others and I look for you:

an infinitesimal search

And I can promise I’ll look every single day that you’re still dead

You wrote yourself into my story and the stories of a million others then ended your chapter too soon but the thing about open letters and the thing about poems and the thing about love is that they are infinite

So I think that if I keep forcing myself to sit down and write this maybe you’ll still be alive in some way living through my memories and even living through my grief and living through my search and living through the pain everyone else feels that you’re gone and living through the words and maybe just maybe you’ll be infinite too

One last thing, Maddie,

If you can hear me right now

I love you