when your friend just killed herself and you dread over the last poetic, witty, insightful, long ass conversation you ever had with her. of the LIFE you had with her. and you cry and cry your self to fucking sleep while clinging on to your phone hoping it was all a viral text message dream.

 

and you think about how you were the last person she talked to. and how you’ve never had a conversation so fucking full of honesty and bluntness and reality. because like you, she sees what’s real and doesn’t care if other people would think it’s too vulgar or even blatantly rude. and how she just talks about life and it’s fragility, not being afraid to narrate bullshits about life and the truth. a conversation so real you’ve never had with anyone in your whole life. not even with your fucking self. 

 

and you think about how the world was not deserving of her poetry, her intricate and fragile heart, her awkward and consistent love, and her sharp but warm satire.

 

I hold on to her words, while swimming in a cesspool of oblivion.

 

I stare at the dark, broken, hurt, utterly fucked up majestic sky, and desperately look for signs of life. no inhale. no exhale. the sky is not breathing. 

 

she does not dwell by the definitions of this world anymore .she’s dead. and at the same time, god is dead. 

 

dreams, be the liable entity that leads me to where the sky is alive. 

 

so will I drift to sleep tonight
and never wake up?

why not? she’s gone.