appease:

I feel sick to my stomach when I think about you, and how you left,
what your last days were like, and how I watched you leave. I get sick.

I get sick when I think about the way you smell, how it changed, and how fragile you started to become.

I get sick when I realize that you’re gone, that I can’t find you, that I can’t search for you.

And I get sick when I know that I can’t touch you, feel the warmth of you next to me, or the texture of your hands.

I miss everything.

RIP