God damn it Misha
Felix. It’s your birthday. I think you’d be twenty one this year. I dread to think what shenanigans you’d have planned with your entourage of friends. Did you have any idea how many friends you had? More than we could fit in a church- I’ll tell you that.
Sometimes I resent that you were the golden one when I worked harder. That you were popular and I was lonely. And you were still lonely. I don’t know whether you gave me your childhood or took mine away from me, drinking beers in your room aged 8 and 9.
The thing I hate you for most is getting there first. I’m all they have left now. Whenever I think about giving up- you happen. It’s your birthday or anniversary or I see your mum again (she can’t walk anymore).
I’m angry about that. I have to be the one to live. And you get to run away.
But one day I’ll be grateful.
So while you’re up there. With jack Daniels coming out of a tap by the sink, and Kurt Cobain playing live and Vonnegut reading aloud.
Think about me sometimes. You know I was the closest thing you had.