3.04.2010

oh. number sixty-three.

My mistake was not fixing your mistake. We grew up best friends, I taught you how to roll a joint when we were kids and I smoked you out one of your first times. After the first diagnosis, treatment, and survival, we smoked more weed and listened to more reggae than imaginable. Both of those things effected who we became, and magnetized people to us separately. So life was feeling short and you got into heavier stuff and moved away - hell, surfing in California beats this fucking desert any day. Maybe the heroin and the opiates made you not feel the pain. But it made you forget me, and I said goodbye when you forgot my name at that St. Patrick's day party. My mistake is walking away and not reminding you. My mistake is that you're dead now, and you had no clue who I was, because I walked away two years ago.

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