Six months ago, tonight, was the last time any of your friends ever saw you. Resolute, you went home and left us all forever. I'll never understand your decision.
One year ago, on Halloween, we attended the same party. I was unaware of your spectral figure looming over me, until a friend whispered in my ear, "Steve is right behind you, staring."
I spent the rest of the night glancing over my shoulder, avoiding you at all costs.
I'll never see you again.
In this past 6 months, I've swum through an ocean of "ifs," piercing the surface like dorsal fins.
I have lived through a season of the conditional tense: would'a/could'a/should'a.
The heartbreak is unending. But you taught me more, in this one act, than I could have possibly learned in years of making my own mistakes--about forgiveness. About love. About life.
Like the supernovas whose glowing deaths have revealed untold secrets about the heavens, about distances between stars and the age, size, and weight of the universe...
In your wake, it is a different word, a world where love is the objective, where acceptance is requisite, and where memory is precious. I know we are never over.
I just wish we lasted a little bit longer, and hoped a little harder.