Writing

Each poem

each message

deleted

one

after

the other.

The words don't flow freely anymore,

now slow and sticky

not flying out my fingers in their regular way.

I can't make it work

Music is great

But being compared to your best friend isn’t

Music is great

I'm finishing the story,

How can it be true?

I'm nearing the end;

There is no future to see.

It doesn't feel real

But it is—it's all going to be over. 

Months it's been since this world's been right,

You stand up

To take a solo.

Before, I've always smiled

At it.

Seeing you solo

Is incredible -

Just watching you -

I may not know you,

But I know you

By how you play.

she’s not made for this world
of cropped tops and cold shoulders
of high-pitched cruelty
and eyeliner wings sharp enough to kill 
but she’d sell her soul
just to sit with them for five minutes

I like to think 

that if our friends;

sometimes the closest people in our life,

can see us for our soul.

Then so can others.