Feeling accustomed is the hardest part.

Your disappearance seems unrealistic.

How does one adapt to such a shatter of the heart?

Seems the other day you were here and as always, cheerfully altruistic.

You never wanted one to worry,

Your optimism resulted in all of our shocks.

Your earthly departure has left our minds in a disarranged state and blurry.

What I thought was a nightmare, is now your remains enkindled in a black box.

There’s no amount of lamentation that could heal the void left behind.

In disbelief and distraught, I find myself filled with regret.

Yet simultaneously filled with blissful memories entwined in my mind.

I see you some nights, and wake up in sweat,

Hoping to wake up with my subconscious vitality physical.

Impossibility, chaotic nonsense, now overtrumps what was once logic,

Despite the awareness that your corporeal visibility is mystical.

Who thought the death of an alcoholic could be so catastrophic?

One might think they’d see it coming.

One would think there’d be no surprise.

But no matter the predictable forthcoming,

One is never prepared for such a demise.

Despite the skepticism toward your health,

That circled the air as long as my time could recall,

You remained strong, stuck to your mindset, and to avoid worry, keeping your enervation in stealth.

It is that exact brave perseverance that has made these circumstances such a curve ball.

How does one adapt to such a shatter of the heart?

Feeling accustomed is the hardest part.

Only time can tell if it truly heals all.

Can one truly recuperate by such a totemic downfall?



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