Years since twenty and o-six I've found that I've made many friends
and in relationships have seen changes that I've needed then
that make me a far better person now than what I once was.
Though I've changed, damages were done to people who I could have
Easily been friends with. But their losses shaped me too, in time.

There are people that vanished, though. People that didn't run, like
That one forgotten name on my Steam list who told me that he'd
never forget my kindness. And I've forgotten his name. Why
did I find such comfort in his words when we spoke for maybe
two too short weeks, and he just disappeared then, and I forgot.

Some sit on regrets. Like asking teenage questions in grade school
In public with their parents. Things they know they couldn't help when
They were children and didn't know. Memory should permeate
And link together, but a friendship of weeks is brittle chain
left in the fire for too long, hot but breaks when in the cold.

Cold of seeing people you don't know dead, but your friends knew them
well and you wish you knew them too. Now you don't, and now can't ever
meet them. They slid under a car, under a bottle, under
a banner of ideals and idioms their friends knew that they
never had. But the lies make the crash wounds stop bleeding sometimes.

But at least they're dead, and not disappeared like the empty page
online that has "where are you" comments, friends left in the cold to
wonder if the ones who left are dead or not. They didn't go
to another site. They're gone, off phone, off Skype, offline, off the
contacts that warmed them, that warmed me, that didn't make me wonder.

The closure of dead or alive can be coped with but the closed
door into the room doesn't mean the person in that room
is dead. They just can't see them, and the door is thick as iron
plates wedged between them and knowing about Schroedinger's fucking
Cat. Noone has a way to know. They became so dissapeared.