Running my fingers over the cover,
A book made for friends and her lover,
With pictures and text and beautiful art,
She made everything original from the start.
I had a video of her from a month ago,
In my crowded room, she put on a show,
Dancing erotically around that taller boy,
Kissing the girls because she was not coy.
I remembered her laugh and her velvet lips,
She came outside with me to take rum sips,
Carefully elaborating on how she'd be a star,
Puffing dangerously on her cigar.
And now, my heart thumps louder,
As I reach the page where I had drawn a thistle flower,
So long ago, for such an excited face,
Which is now forever frozen in place.
(This is the second friend within a month that has killed themselves. I wish I remembered what I had written in that book, all I can picture is the flower I drew above the text. On a side note, I guess the formatting refuses to stay the way I've originally written it, no matter how hard I try. Enjoy reading it incorrectly, I suppose.)