It is not my fault that you are gone. It IS my fault for not realising that you were not going to stay.
It Is My Fault for overlooking your emotional decline, as if my helplessness regarding your hopelessness was a validation for the way in which I handled your statement of depression. I, always so abundant in advice for those I care about, found when your tongue stalled mine stilled. In your silence there was a hunger for the words that I did not have.
It Is My Fault for the immoralities in which I have excessively indulged, for the vices that we would unite over and the manner in which they obliterated the memories of your every profession. In your absence my thoughts have sobered, and I have been left to reflect upon what I have now come to know was truly your confession.
It Is My Fault for allowing the anxiety that ticks in my head like the hands of a clock to convince me there was no time for a farewell, because there would always be time for another hello. The uncharacteristic keenness you displayed should have served as an alarm, yet my apprehension was the only thing I allowed myself to pay heed to… The loss of you has detonated with more force than any fear ever could have.
It Is My Fault for blithely accepting your response to my query; you were a puzzle I was too ashamed to admit I could not solve. What you presented was a perfectly coloured side of a Rubik’s Cube, and although I could sense the angles you did not display were a mangled mess aching to be resolved I did not know how to align the rest of you without disrupting the best of you.
It Is Not My Fault that you are gone, but It Is My Fault for not recognising that you weren’t going to stay. As you journeyed to your final destination, you left a trail of breadcrumbs in your wake –and now, I’m choking on them.