Last Night: A Prose
Last night I was from sober. Last night was just another usual night for me. Filled with kisses from boys I will never know the names of. Last night I was far from depression. Last night I was close to heaven while taking residency on cloud nine. But last night was last night and at the present time it couldn’t seem any further away. Any more distant in my memory.
Because last night he died. The boy who kissed me one night I took the time to learn the name of. He was the one I gave a real name and number to and stayed up all night waiting for him to call. And when he did I just listened to him breath as I fell asleep. Last night he died alone in a hospital bed.
He died alone in a hospital bed and became another queer statistic. Another reason for ignorant people to say that all queers have AIDS or HIV or both. And at his funeral with be a mother who kinda cared, a few friends, and relatives who say serves him right. But the fact remains he died last night and I was piss drunk.
To mom he was her pride and joy. “Pride” written with rainbow letters and “joy” spoken half-ass to neighbors. To dad he was a spec on his reputation. Something he could never escape. To me, at the present moment of thought, he was just another ex. Another in a long list of gluttony. To all of us, he was dead. And that single thought brings an odd ache into my chest. Followed by the slow and sudden build-up of moisture in my eyes. All of this is just a prelude to the sobs that will inevitably come.
Because he died and with his death a piece of the puzzle that is my heart has gone missing. And in my search for the missing puzzle piece I am haunted by landmarks that sparks my memory. I am haunted by street corners where we stopped, illuminated by the glow of the moon and street lamps, and kissed. I fear bus stops that remind me how we used to sit close together and hold hands. I would rest my head on the shoulder of his varsity jacket and let him run his fingers through my hair.
My memory force feeds me images of him and it doesn’t sit well with my stomach. I remember his love for Motion City Soundtrack. I can’t shake his voice telling me that people crying was beautiful. He said this because pain was pure and happiness was too easily accessible.
I know that tomorrow he will be more of a memory. Each day after that he fade away more and more until he won’t exist anymore. Today he is so vivid in my mind I am foooled into thinking he is still alive. Today, today he is the pain of my heart.
Because last night he died. The boy who kissed me one night I took the time to learn the name of. He was the one I gave a real name and number to and stayed up all night waiting for him to call. And when he did I just listened to him breath as I fell asleep. Last night he died alone in a hospital bed.
He died alone in a hospital bed and became another queer statistic. Another reason for ignorant people to say that all queers have AIDS or HIV or both. And at his funeral with be a mother who kinda cared, a few friends, and relatives who say serves him right. But the fact remains he died last night and I was piss drunk.
To mom he was her pride and joy. “Pride” written with rainbow letters and “joy” spoken half-ass to neighbors. To dad he was a spec on his reputation. Something he could never escape. To me, at the present moment of thought, he was just another ex. Another in a long list of gluttony. To all of us, he was dead. And that single thought brings an odd ache into my chest. Followed by the slow and sudden build-up of moisture in my eyes. All of this is just a prelude to the sobs that will inevitably come.
Because he died and with his death a piece of the puzzle that is my heart has gone missing. And in my search for the missing puzzle piece I am haunted by landmarks that sparks my memory. I am haunted by street corners where we stopped, illuminated by the glow of the moon and street lamps, and kissed. I fear bus stops that remind me how we used to sit close together and hold hands. I would rest my head on the shoulder of his varsity jacket and let him run his fingers through my hair.
My memory force feeds me images of him and it doesn’t sit well with my stomach. I remember his love for Motion City Soundtrack. I can’t shake his voice telling me that people crying was beautiful. He said this because pain was pure and happiness was too easily accessible.
I know that tomorrow he will be more of a memory. Each day after that he fade away more and more until he won’t exist anymore. Today he is so vivid in my mind I am foooled into thinking he is still alive. Today, today he is the pain of my heart.