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Finding those receipts in your old, yellow paperbacks like I'm stirring up the ashes in a fire pit, and wondering what I can learn about you when you were still alive. I've been told that I'm the longest letter to the future that man ever wrote. If I’m telling the truth, all I see are these inconsistencies. The way you scribbled dates into the corners of of every book that you ever read. So was that just for you? Was it for me? I don't intend to leave behind me anything. My life like a poem, something short and sweet. Finding significance in the most seemingly simple lines. I keep assigning worth to everyday things, like I can’t accept that this is it, that this is everything. Singing songs makes it better except for when it makes it worse. It’s been so long since you died. Tell me why I keep visiting your grave. That month you caught your cold, and when your breathing got so bad we’d hear the fluid in your lungs. Falling apart was something I always thought I’d inherit from you. The day that I’m gone, Put my shit in the attic. A coffee mug chipped where you dropped it and a set of keys I don’t know what for. I’m still uncovering all these little pieces of you. I can’t believe that this is it, this is everything. Singing songs makes it better except for when it makes it worse. Scratching out those awful metaphors helps me think I’m moving forward. It’s been so long since you died. Tell me why I keep visiting your grave. I’m more familiar with your ghost these days.