In two days, it will have been a whole month since he killed himself.
I dreamed about last night for the first time; we spoke to each other. It was two days before he killed himself, and he looked the same as whenever he was in high school. He knew he would kill himself--or perhaps be put to death by his parents--it wasn't exactly clear. I remember him hiding me in his room before his parents came home.
There were also dinosaurs and giant explosions.
I miss him, but at the same time I can't imagine him being here anymore. It's like he was a dream, and I woke up alone.
I wish I could see him, to tell him everything that's happened in the last month; all the music I've listened too; and how much I love him, but not just as a lover--as my brother.
This is a very sad way to wake up on Labor day weekend. A very sad way, indeed.
Later in my day, I'm reminded of his death. As this Labor Day weekend presses forward I'm reminded that I've no real plans for myself outside of pet sitting for my sister. Not that I should have something to do, but I find myself in these small moments of aloneness where the thought passes through my head: "I'm gonna call him..." or "I wonder what he's doing." From there I'm pushed to think of the terms of his Earthly body: cold, swollen, trapped away in a box made to harbor death void of the light.
How I miss him. How my heart aches in his absents.
Death comes to us all.