Sometimes

I lay awake

Reading through you're 

Journals and notes,

Because I can't seem to

Fall asleep.

Your mother had

Given me

Boxes

Upon boxes

Of the things you 

Wrote.

She was hoping

I'd find

Your suicide note,

Stashed away,

Tucked in between,

One of the pages

In your many

Notebooks.

But none was found,

You had left

Without a sound,

Without a reason,

Without goodbye.