Mike.
When I remember him, I only tend to dwell on the hurt and the pain he left in his wake, when he left my life and slammed the door behind him.
I always forget the way he was so proud of the paint job he'd done in his own bedroom, or how he used to scream over the masturbation line in "La Vie Boheme" so I wouldn't have to hear it. I always forget recording Britney Spears parodies in his basement or watching Liar, Liar in French with him. Or him pretending to propose to me on the corner of Main and University in Provo. Or the way he used to do a quick-fix shave by only shaving his cheeks and not bothering with under his chin and his neck, and it always looked horrible, but I never said anything. Late nights closing at Carl's Jr. Cutting class with him. How we called him Mikeypants and he insisted that we call him MikeyNoPants. Him trying to explain football to me like it was vital to my life.
I don't think of the few days we spent together and smiled at each other before things went bad. I just remember his hands on the piano keys, how beautiful and how much he felt it when he sang, how could such beautiful music come out of someone that seemed so distant? So irresponsible and aloof? He was so much more than he ever seemed to be, and we tried to pry that out of him... we did our damndest. And we loved him despite his flaws, despite him being on such a warpath to destroying himself. We were always afraid of this.
I remember listening to Mandy Moore in his little silver car. Mandy Moore was our joint favorite guilty pleasure. He said, once, that "Candy" was my song, from him. And "I Wanna Be With You" was his, from me.
Mike, we will always love you... the you we knew. The real you, my ragtag pirate captain in the orange shirt, the boy that took me to my first rated-R movie. The boy I wasted so much time being angry at, all these years... but now he knows I'm not angry anymore. I always, always hoped that he would make it, that he would find a toehold, a niche in the rock to stick his fingers into, but I think it was finally too much.
May angels lead you in, Mikeypants.
I always forget the way he was so proud of the paint job he'd done in his own bedroom, or how he used to scream over the masturbation line in "La Vie Boheme" so I wouldn't have to hear it. I always forget recording Britney Spears parodies in his basement or watching Liar, Liar in French with him. Or him pretending to propose to me on the corner of Main and University in Provo. Or the way he used to do a quick-fix shave by only shaving his cheeks and not bothering with under his chin and his neck, and it always looked horrible, but I never said anything. Late nights closing at Carl's Jr. Cutting class with him. How we called him Mikeypants and he insisted that we call him MikeyNoPants. Him trying to explain football to me like it was vital to my life.
I don't think of the few days we spent together and smiled at each other before things went bad. I just remember his hands on the piano keys, how beautiful and how much he felt it when he sang, how could such beautiful music come out of someone that seemed so distant? So irresponsible and aloof? He was so much more than he ever seemed to be, and we tried to pry that out of him... we did our damndest. And we loved him despite his flaws, despite him being on such a warpath to destroying himself. We were always afraid of this.
I remember listening to Mandy Moore in his little silver car. Mandy Moore was our joint favorite guilty pleasure. He said, once, that "Candy" was my song, from him. And "I Wanna Be With You" was his, from me.
Mike, we will always love you... the you we knew. The real you, my ragtag pirate captain in the orange shirt, the boy that took me to my first rated-R movie. The boy I wasted so much time being angry at, all these years... but now he knows I'm not angry anymore. I always, always hoped that he would make it, that he would find a toehold, a niche in the rock to stick his fingers into, but I think it was finally too much.
May angels lead you in, Mikeypants.
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