To Mike Flanagan

My grief hits hardest at night

when I’m listening to the hum of the fan

and flipping and flopping

trying to find a position that feels right.

In those moments of solitude,

I’ll replay a memory of you

and find that my grief is in bed.

You were taken too soon

and yet I’m glad you’re at peace.

You deserved more time,

but I’m amazed at all you did.

Who else can be strong enough to create art,

to change lives,

while battling a disease with no known cure.

It’s amazing how strong you were

and how little you asked for.

I try to find the silver lining,

but at night time it’s hard

because you should be here.

Laughing at our stupid jokes,

or pretending that my bribes work.

My grief hits hardest at night

because I’m unable and too tired

to run away from it.

And then I feel guilty because it feels like I’m running from you

and I would gladly run towards you now

for one last hug, one last joke,

for a chance to tell you what you meant to me.

So it’s night time, and I’m sitting with my grief

telling it the things I want to say to you

and I hope you’re listening.