When you died, I didn't search for you.
I didn't ask when you'd be coming back
or why you'd died in the first place,
I just nodded my head and went to school.
I couldn't cry,
even after trying to force tears out
for the better part of a month.
The space between your death and funeral
seemed familiar, like the space between your eyes
or the span of your widest stretched-arms.
My friends asked me where I was,
and I told them "A funeral," and laughed.
They apologized. I apologized.
I'm sorry I didn't do more.
I'm sorry that upon hearing you'd gone,
I didn't run from room to room,
checking behind the curtains and throwing open the windows,
scanning the horizon for your charging body
as you ran madly away from us
and into the sun.