Your Facebook reminds me that it is your birthday, even though you have been dead three months. I check your profile most days, if not every. I phone your mobile. It doesn’t ring. You answer - a recorded voicemail message - promising to return my call.
I spend time trudging through your photo albums. Personal moments for the world to see. I cannot take them back, pull them down. People still tag you. These new events make me believe you are still living. Still breathing. Proof. Single frames of you enjoying life, but always with the letters R.I.P next to your name. How I wish for these moments to be only a few hours previous. They are dated years ago. Even at times I did not know you. You have a life I never knew, was not a part of, and learning such convinces me that you are still here; still smiling, talking, laughing, drinking and dancing with everyone but me.
Men I do not know embrace you from behind, their heads against yours. These past romances never bothered me. But now you are not here to tell me that I mean more to you, I think otherwise.
If only there was a box to lock these memories away, under a bed, at the back of a cupboard. Not only a click away on my bookmark bar.