You’re not haunting me, you’re reminding me to breath fresh life into my days.
The sadness vines itself into a ball in my chest when I think about the man he would be today. I want to call him up, ask him what he’s been getting into lately, plan a trip to the mountains. I want to pack into the Tacoma with the bros and have him drive me and my innocence away. Let the pop-punk-metal bass rumble my stomach, ignoring the bad taste that blaring genre puts in my mouth. I want to watch him inhale his Marlborough lights, that weird way he’d puff out his cheeks before calling the smoke down home to the lungs. I want to hear him laugh to slap his hand to see those spikes of hair to be blinded by the sun’s glare beaming from his Electric sunglasses to tell him he won the smarty-pants award to drink a case of beer to smoke a blunt to ride the clouds with him. Any fantasy of what the man he’d be today could not match what he’d actually be had he lived. The only thing I am certain of is he would still be my brother. I just want to be near him again, to bullshit and talk about the Triad and chart how far we’d come since our adolescence. You still are my brother. I am still working out the ways you managed to pack so much life into those years you lived.
I want you back, man.