He was my best friend.
Sometimes, when I’d run away from home, I’d come to him and he’d sleep on the couch so I could take his bed.
He taught me how to laugh when I hadn’t smiled in months.
He was my absolute rock.
He was my best friend.
He adores music, can jam out to it for hours.
He likes staring at the stars and will take the evening off if a planet is especially bright that night, just so he can stare up at it.
He likes making and improving the stuff he has.
I would stand atop the planks he was sowing in half to construct a makeshift steering-rig for his racing game.
He was my best friend.
He never used to set an alarm, because he preferred waking up to the rays of sun peeking through his window, shining on his face.
When he showered, he would shampoo his hair first and rinse it last.
He was my best friend.
And we grew apart.
He’s doing well.
I miss him.
I’m his ghost.
I would say he’s mine, but he wasn’t the one that moved away.
There’s an empty place on the bench where I used to sit next to him.
I hope that empty place is filled with the love of someone else.
He’s not the only friend I’ve lost touch with over the years.
We grow up, we move away, or sometimes it just becomes harder to make time for each other.
It happens, and it’s okay.
The last time I saw him we were trying to rekindle the friendship after a couple of years of low contact. It was like no time had passed.
Just him and me together, like we’d always been.
It felt like the start of something.
But that something never came.
Our unfinished business hanging in between us like unspoken words.
Now we’re ghosts
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