I don’t think of you anymore.
I don’t think of your sweet raspy voice, or your pink hair.
I barely even noticed it’s green now.
I don’t think of your style, the “light fits” or the way you made me smile.
I don’t think about your music, or how you played the guitar for me.
I don’t think about you getting high, nodding out.
I barely remember you sitting there, eyes so heavy there must be weights on your eyelids.
I don’t think about you.
I think about Daisy.
I wonder if she still sits at the bathroom door waiting for you when you shower.
If she still sits on her spot at the edge of your bed while you make music.
Does she still have to watch, while you are having a conversation with death?
She wonders if you’ll go with him.
Wondering if you will come back this time, if you’re leaving her all alone.
Just like you did me.
