A precious friend passed away recently, and her death has been one of the hardest things I’ve survived. A lot of me died with her, but not all the things I lost were bad. When her light disappeared from the world, so too did my ability to justify procrastination. I lost some of my distractibility, and a large portion of my reserve from those around me.

She was so young when she died. She taught me time is limited, and that we never know how much more of it we have. We can only live, and live fully, so that when our stars burn out, we leave without regrets.

Since she passed, my creative output has soared, but my heart is still long from mending. At the most random of times, I find tears leaking from the corner of my eyes. I’ve never been one to cry, even at loss, but I find myself doing so every time I remember she’s gone.

My grief bares my soul in a way I am far from comfortable with, but I’m still not sure that it’s bad. Still, every poem I write holds her at its heart, and I weep with the words, happy or sad.