The poetry you could write about Rufus helping me out of my grave isn’t lost on me.
But hey, if there’s one bright side to your dying, it’s that you aren’t around to tell me things I don’t like hearing. I’m sorry. That was a dickhead thing to say. I need a condom for my mouth.
Then there’s the kind of zombie I’ve become now: the one who has lost everything—his brain, his heart, his light, his direction. He wanders the world, bumping into this, tripping over that, but keeps going and going. That is life after death.
I’d give in to the grief but make sure I wasn’t loud enough to draw attention from those who think words will make me feel better.
Yes, we live, or we’re given the chance to, at least, but sometimes living is hard and complicated because of fear.
No one goes on, but what we leave behind keeps us alive for someone else.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. We both know that’s bullshit; it comes from people who have nothing comforting or original to say.