[Straygeek]: 656.Sharma, Dear.

Always, in my dreams, we're sitting by ourselves with our long teenage legs hanging over the cliff, watching the raging sun subside as it slips down the face of the sky to be extinguished by the sea. The way we ended each of those summer days.

I've got a bottle in my hand, Double Brown, baby, coz that’s what we used to drink. I remember stealing the bottles from your Dad's secret stash, filling our backpacks and trekking down to the beach to hide them away; dumping a few in the stream so they'd be deliciously chill when we snuck back down to drink them. I think he knew, but your Dad was always pretty cool.

You played me Astral Weeks, when we were camped out in your room. You tried to teach me to play it on your electric guitar, but my fingers were too short to hold down the strings, so you chucked me the acoustic instead. I wasn't even jealous, you coaxed that music out like a lion tamer, skillfully, respectfully, because music was your life.

I'm listening to it now, Vans voice sends shivers down my spine and I miss you so much I can taste it. My bottle's empty, babe. I think I won’t have another.

The last time I drank DB was at Pia's wedding. You were her bridesmaid and you were magnificent even in that terribly brown dress. Your green eyes so alive, ebony hair tumbling down your back. I almost thought I could see some of the white strands that I always teased you about. But it was long gone by then; you were at Uni and working hard to get rid of all those little quirks that you used to pull off so well. The hair you fixed with dye and your quaint smile was quickly dealt to with braces. The clear kind, so that you'd fit in.

My fire's burning low; it must be time for me to sleep off this dumb desire. It'll be dark soon, the power's been cut off again and the flames are my last light. It feels like I'm spending a lot of time in the dark just lately. 

I think we were both a lot older after the accident. We never raided your Dad’s beer again, but by then it wasn’t a secret stash anyway. Your Dad, I think he was too sad to try, and your Mum too tired to care. Nah, it was tequila and pot from then on, sometimes a bit of meth or tabs, and that was my fault babe, and you’ve gotta believe me, I’m sorry.

The colorful, exotic, euphoric trips were never as good as the delicious stories you used to tell in the dead of night. But we were too old for that, God you grew up so much more beautiful than anyone expected. You were popular and you brought your shiny precious University friends down to the beach that summer. Our last summer.

I was miserable that summer, fuck it, I was such a cunt. I didn’t see you as much as I could have, rebuking the many attempts you made to include me. I hated your friends, hated the endless gossip about clothes and dorm-life and boys. Mostly I hated how bright and clean their futures seemed. You were having the time of your life, and I was trying to destroy myself from the inside out, the outside in, and any other fucking angle I could find.

Yeah I was hanging out with your cousins, we were getting fucked up on P and talking philosophy. I was never addicted baby, it was just the biggest taboo of our time (I’m sure you remember), and I was going out of my way to stick it to the man. We were thinking deep thoughts and forming grandiose plans, we were the underdogs, we were the persecuted, and we were the future. We were stoned prophets predicting a new world order, with us as the leaders. We were desperate, and the drugs and the lies were easier than lying in the bed’s we’d made for ourselves. Especially as time wore on and they began to resemble coffins more and more.
I kept an eye on you from my safe distance, I knew I was going down and I sure as hell didn’t want to take you with me. I was jealous and spiteful, yeah, but never to you. I was hurting and I was lashing out, but I never meant to hurt you.

And that’s why I did it. You found me that night, up in the cliffs, and sat by my side helping me witness the sun’s last struggle down into the oceans eventual triumph. You tried to make small talk and I wasn’t interested. I didn’t even look at you. You still tried; you said to me everything I wished I could have told you. You told me you missed me, that I was your best friend; your life wasn’t complete without me. You poured your heart out into the cool night air, and Sharma, dear, I walked away.