Fooling the stupid idea of death

Today I hide my tears,
hate being vulnerable around strangers,
and even friends.

I have this sensation like Murakami's expression of feeling this world isn't real at all.

I woke up thinking about how great it will be
to have mail, or email all the way through
heaven or hell, or both.

And all of a sudden, Guille comes to my mind.
You.
It's been almost five years since you left.
Since your death.

That night you gave me your last hug,
your last look;
our last joke.

Sometimes I wonder if you are able to see
all of my crappy decisions;
perhaps you might be laughing and thinking in silence.

Maybe you would just call out my name
"July, Jules... come here." and hug me
while rubbing my head like a little puppy.

Your voice...
Remember the radio program we produced and all of our songs in the podcasts?
I uploaded them to an open code-server host.
As incredible as it might seem, people have liked them.

Guess we were good guitar-singer partners.

It's shity that I still have that broken guitar.
I confess I haven't been able to play it again, not into it.

That Sunday afternoon I visited your grave
Just one time visit.
I sang, I played... I cried.
I miss you.

Today.