Everything reminds me of you: It'd take all the fun out of life. Eagle! And the songs on the radio are no longer about the rights. My i-pod on shuffle and the song comes on and all I can think is your greatest trick ever was your great escape. - The dirt on your grave has finally settled. I'm sorry I don't miss you as much as I miss others but you have to know how important you were to me, how much I miss your physical presence in my life. There are no replacements, no one to fill in the gap you left behind. When I visit your grave I leave post-it notes, like the ones you'd leave on my bedroom door around noon when I'd refuse to wake up. Every time I return they're gone, but they're small, simple words taped above your last name: I miss you, I love you still, I don't blame you, and I know it was on purpose. - There will be no more late nights with wine and cheesy love music, no discussing your fiance, and I will no longer be doing your homework while you chain smoke outside. The space that separates us now is permanent and harsh, a whole state as the final signature on your eviction notice from my life. - Our friendship revolved around the bell of a diner as the door would swing open on our way into work, but we had the same nights and we had the same thoughts. Afterwards you stayed in my bed and our hands were clasped together as we discussed all we wanted out of life and all the things we didn't want - waiting for marriage and going to college and all those things you've given up but I've still held on to, and they started with you. Now my throat constricts just being in your presence, my chest aching like a deep compression and I just want away. Away from you and everything you let rip our friendship apart. - It's a full eleven years later and the curse on me is that I had the chance to get to know you. At least there's that, everyone says, but how is it better to know what you're missing than to not know at all? We went to the mountains and you took me horseback riding and we rode go-karts and you pushed me around in a shopping cart at the grocery store. Seven years old and you were ripped from my life, like a dream I can't remember in the morning but try so very hard to hold onto. Your memory flutters around in my head like the memory of that night does: waiting in bed for the sound of the door, my mother coming home to bring you with her, to bring you home from the hospital. The TV was on, fooling me into hearing your voices, and I would bound out of bed and run into the living room and neither of you would be there. The door finally opened and shut behind her with a finality as loud as cracking steel and she was there and I was there but you weren't. You haven't been here since. I haven't visited your grave in years.