They say.….

They say Andrea Gibson died.

Allegedly.

That’s the word their wife used — like death was a rumor,

a story the body tells while the spirit rolls its eyes

and slips out the back door, barefoot and laughing.Megan laughs. Sighs. 

I keep thinking about that —

how someone can be pronounced gone

while still flickering at the corner of your sight,

still haunting the shape of sunrise,

still rearranging the furniture of your memory

like they never turned in their key.

And you —

You say you’re gone too.

Allegedly.

I’ve heard the verdict. I’ve seen the ending.

You handed me the absence

like a folded note and walked away. 

You texted me and didn’t even give me the decency of a conversation though you told me and tell the world you value good communication and a growth mindset. 

But tell me:

why do I still catch you in the sound of your shoes on pavement,

in the quick breath before a season changes,

in the way I hesitate before saying the truth out loud?

Why does every quiet moment, nightmare I have carry the bruised outline of your name?

People talk about closure

like it’s a chore you can cross off a list,

like grief and confusion follow rules,

like losing someone who’s still alive

isn’t the most fucked-up kind of death

a heart can endure.

Because it fucking is. 
But you let it happen. Not me. 

You wrote me out of your life like I wasn’t even your friend even though I have video after video message and texts saying how excited you were for me to move. 

You are “allegedly” gone.

Your absense and your memories cut me to my core. And somehow you still lay your head on your pillow at night with no guilt, remorse, or emotion to what you did to me. “I never meant to hurt you” you said. Twice. Oh but you did. 

THIS was on purpose. 

THIS was thought out. 

I could feel it in the air months before you did it. There were so many signs, I’m in exile now.

And I think I’ve seen this film before,

And I didn’t, no I don’t, like the ending. 

I see you everywhere.

Not in the way Andrea’s wife sees a ghost,

but in the way a fault line remembers a California earthquake:

the shape of you still trembles through me,

the aftershock still rearranging the shelves inside my chest.

Maybe you’re gone forever.

Maybe you’re not.

But don’t you dare expect me

to call this disappearance a funeral.

Because I’m still here.

Stubbornly believing, knowing this is fucking bullshit.

Yeah, I am calling bullshit on endings FROM AND BY A FRIEND.
So what will it take for you to come back? I keep asking these words you are reading. So what will it take? 

You are “allegedly” gone.

But I know better.

You were here enough to change me, make me grieve my FRIEND’S absence every weekend I don’t get to go out to a new bar or restaurant, go on a walk, go to a concert—and that’s the kind of living

that refuses to die.