but he liked it,
he liked light orange,
You know the gross sticky mess on a stick,
losing someone is like a creamsicle,
It melts all over your hand and makes a mess,
and when you wipe it on your pants and don't wash them,
It sticks around,
even after so many times through the washing machine.
it never goes away,
a small spot remains that nobody but you really notices,
a little spot that's stained and collects dust
Three years ago today.
I miss him,
I miss the color he used to talk about during snack breaks,
and after-school activities,
Picking the orange-flavored gummies,
out of everyone's individual gummies bags.
I miss the jokes,
and the games,
and the way he laughed.
Everyone always says it gets easier with time,
I think its harder,
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