Look at the stars, tell the moon

losing myself

I'm afraid of forgetting you.

Not your face, which I always see when you happen to be on the same bus. Not your messages, kept, I won't delete them

I'm afraid to forget how beautiful your laugh was, I knew it was real when it echoed lightly on the water and strangers passed us smiling.

I'm afraid to forget how beautiful you are when no one wants to hear how sweet you are and I only want to tell them when it's sad.

I don't know how to tell people about you so they'll want to listen. Not disappear in mid-sentence, hang up and never want to talk about you again.

I want them to know that you were happy, that your life is beautiful, that you are so much more beautiful than they think.

That everything I tell them doesn't do you justice. That you are so much more than the stories I write to process them. That people like you and I don't belong together and it's not your fault. That your laugh is still as beautiful as it used to be.

I want them to listen to me when I tell them about you.
Then wait, cell phone aside, for them to look at me, to understand in my smile why I'm talking.

I want them to see you, to see you behind my words.

But I know that's difficult. That they only see you when you scream. They only want to see you when you're loud. They only want to see you when you hurt, me, only then.

They want stories that hurt, that make them forget how beautiful your laughter is. They want the stories that outweigh, want to destroy your laughter, was never real, only when you weren't sober.

They don't know what you were like. They never bothered to want to know anything about you.

But I hope one day they can read between the lines in the words I tell them, what you're like when you're alive.

I'm afraid of forgetting you and not finding myself again.