seven stages

Denial

dear frank
you're gone.

when i go home, i'm met with hugs and apologies from my family, but the comfort i seek is not to be found in their shaky hands and teary eyes, and the comfort i crave is in your embrace, never to be felt again.

but
as i'm lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, i'm still expecting you to come running through the door like you did before you got sick.

or my phone to buzz with a Skype call from you, asking me to come over.

and it feels like you're still here.

so i let myself think that for a while.

i plan out my outfit for the party next week, how we're gonna get there, what you'd wear, what we'd do.
i pick up my phone and write a draft text to you, asking what time i should come round.

then i write a draft to Taylor, asking if she'll drive us to Tom's house.
go through your Instagram, all your tagged photos, drafting a text calling you a handsome dork.

and after an hour of forgetting, i remember. and it's worse than before.

you're gone.