My photo albums are silent. Their magic has waned. My phone has a missing number. It's too quiet. The haunts and dives we used to visit no longer hold power over me. I could care less now about entering inside. I can still hear you call me a 'pussy' or tell me to 'shut the fuck up' when I know I'm wussing out or staying stupid shit. I can still hear your laugh and know that when I screw up you're right there laughing at me. Ian channels you sometimes to remind me that you are never far away, not really. I know you come and go. I appreciate the visits when you take the time.
Twenty years ran past us while we were running to keep up. Numbers in miles, in men, in drama, and giggles, in drugs, in drink, in residences, in adventures, in dares, and jobs are all I have left as memories after the numbers abruptly stopped counting. The only number counting now is the time following your death. Now all I can do is think and remember and wish my phone was able to reach your sorry ass. Fuck you for leaving me behind so early but I can't wait until it's your laughing eyes and bright smile that greet me when it's my turn to say good-bye to this life. I'm sure you're blazing trails and have a million ideas all leading to trouble when I get there and I'll gladly come up with some ideas of my own. I'm so going to give you shit for the last thing you said to me.
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