It doesn’t wake you up in the night. It doesn’t cause you to slam on the brakes and return home. It doesn’t let you drift off into the night.
It keeps you from sleeping in the first place. It keeps you at home with your keys on the table. It tucks you into bed on the couch with your own fleece jacket and whispers the lullaby of death into your ear until you cannot hear anything else except the names of every dead friend you failed to remember when they needed you the most.
It isn’t only about forgetting. It isn’t even close to closure. It’s seeing him riding his bike or talking to him in the store even though he’s been dead for months. It’s more than just about letting go.
It is dying a little more each time someone says her name. And a wrinkle added to your forehead when you see her in some hallway where you used to go to school. And you know it’s just another day dream. You know it only seems real because you didn’t see her die.
Even at the funeral, you swore at anytime her hand could reach up and touch you softly. And with stale lips say “sorry” before you could say it first.
But that wouldn’t keep you from crying on the concrete church steps. It would just let you know that you’re not the only one who regrets.