I still can’t wrap my brain around this. You mean so much to me. No one can replace the countless nights of secret talk sessions and cuddle parties, the terrible jokes and long cries, or the nights of jumping on my bed screaming blink lyrics till the sun came up. As soon as we laid eyes on each other we knew that the other simply understood. No ones ever got me the way you got me. No ones ever made me feel the way you made me feel. No one is you, Myk, no one.
I saw him at a party at 3 am the night before he died. He was leaving, and I was coming. With my phone in one hand and some whiskey in the other, feeling kinda amped up that late at night, we had a brief exchange. You know, the casual kind of party encounters, the drunken, blurry, “Hey, it’s good to see you!” kind of conversations that happen while everybody’s fiending for more party or more booze or more sleep, but definitely not more of the same. But, actually, it was good to see him, with 30 people crowded on the street under the freeway on 36th street, and it didn’t occur to me as he got on his bike and wandered into the crowd that the little half hug and, “Later! See ya round!” was the last time I’d see him. Maybe it was the last time anyone would see him, and maybe I was the last person he said bye to at that party, or maybe I wasn’t. But all I know is that it sure as fuck didn’t feel like the last goodbye, and I wish that it hadn’t been.