You get to the party a little past midnight ,though to be honest, you almost didn't come at all.
It took the better part of a fifth of whiskey to take you off the floor, and the rest to get you down the street,
to this dark garden, to this teenage wasteland.
It was a good whiskey though that fancy bottle, he stole from his parents,
that night he snuk out and threw rocks at your window.
You think it was Thanksgiving, but maybe it was Christmas
and the fact that you already can't remember the details of the night like that,
the last night you were really friends,
the last night you both smiled at the same time and laughed at the same things.
Well, that's a damn shame.
None of these people are your friends. Once upon a time you're all children together,
and yet every face in this crowd is a stranger.
You feel their eyes on you wondering why you're here,
and when you ask yourself that same question,
you find a glaring void where answer should be.
He was your friend.
Maybe, your best friend, if something like that even exists at all.
People only seem to have best friends when they're young,
maybe, it's because growing up means growing apart,
but you're beginning to suspect it's a series of lessons learned,
like, Santa Claus, the sweet dream to tell children, so that, for a couple moments there,
at the beginning, life doesn't hurt quite so much.
Either way it was fucking nice while it lasted.
You miss Santa, really do.
This song, you always hated this song , but only because he liked it.
In fact, his girlfriend's probably playing it just for him, like, playing his song is proof of her fucking love,
and since everyone loves him, maybe, just maybe, they'll love her too.
Thinking about her is starting to give you a headache, so you head for the stairs,
because you need fresh air and maybe just to puke your guts out a little.
Plus, maybe someone on the roof has a cigarette.
But, when you get there, it's empty except for some girl you've never seen before.
And when you ask her for a cigarette she points out that you have a pack in your shirt pocket,
and you start to wonder just how drunk you really are.
She says her name is Blair, and you're pretty sure she's lying, by the way, she takes one of your smokes,
and winks a wink you deeply understand.
A wink that says neither of you belong here.
She asks what the festivities are for,
and you tell her it's for him. This is his party, these are his friends.
It's become something of a tradition with this crowd,
because his birthday always falls on the edge of summer.
You wonder why she's here, and she says for free drinks.
And she wonders why you're here, and you say you don't know, and both of you can tell the other's lying.
She asks if you know the birthday boy, and looks right into your eyes, like, she already knows the truth.
So you say "Yeah".
And she takes a drag, a long drag and asks if you know him well.
And you're not quite sure how to answer so you just say "Kinda."
But these are his friends, not yours, she echoes, so how close could you be.
And you look out at the living city sprawl before you, full happiness and hate,
and whisper to her, but mostly to yourself "Close enough."
Because the truth is you two knew each other better than anyone.
Maybe, even better than you knew yourselves, and definitely better than any of the assholes downstairs.
But the truer truth is that you were close, you really were.
But not anymore.
You were supposed to leave this town, these people, this life and never look back.
You wouldn't be his secret anymore, he wouldn't be yours, best laid plans, blah, blah, blah...
It's only been a few month, since it all fell apart, but it feels like, well, it feels like longer.
She says that you look angry, and you tell her that's because you are.
Maybe you should be sad, but you're not, you're fucking pissed and she's starting to understand.
An understanding that's written with the bitter scars of a broken heart.
Maybe the two of you are the same, maybe you're nothing alike,
but standing there on that roof, the one thing you both have in common is that you're fresh out of tears
for cowards and fag boys. You're all cried out.
Of course, if you were really being honest with yourself, you'd admit there was something beneath the anger.
something blinding and dangerous a simple thought, with all the power of Medusa's gaze,
a glimmer that could turn you to stone.
And then it occurs to you that maybe it already did. This is probably what stone feels like.
Cold and hard and grey.
And maybe she's thinking the same thing because when she touches your arm feels like
she's checking to see if you're real.
Her fingertips carry startling heat,
and you wonder how cold and rough the stone of your arm feels on her soft human skin.
She asks if you still love him and you say "Yes."
She asks if he knows and you say you're not sure.
And so then Blair, or whatever her name really is, wraps her arms around you, holds you.
And whispers in your ear "Tell him."
But you say you can't, it's too late.
She asks why and you tell her the truth, you tell her "He's dead."
He killed himself four months ago, he left you behind, he left you with them.
And now they dance somewhere beneath your feet because it's their way of saying "happy birthday"
or "good bye" or"we love you."
But you don't wanna say any of those things.
And the truth is you might never forgive him.
So you just stand there, awkwardly, holding the girl with the fake name, you've never met.
And will never see again, and wait for sunrise.
You stay quiet, you stay strong.
And you, definitely, definitely, don't cry.