I try to write about you…and all the words seem wrong. I can’t understand how you took writing from me too. The way I can lay my guilt out on a page like a falling picnic blanket. Gone. You took my sleep, my peace of mind, even handfuls of my confidence but this, this is too much. My writing is everything. It’s how I let go, move on, forget. And without that, how will I ever let go of you? Maybe I won’t. I can’t write about you. Your smile, your skin. Nothing to say, yet so much to feel. I took a deep breath and I dove. Taking a chance I sometimes regret, because you left me drowning.

I’ve gone through all the stages. Anger, denial, depression…so when do I get to the point where your name isn‘t always racing through my mind? I’m angry that you have no idea how much I care for you, denying the fact that you have moved on, and I’m depressed that I don’t even feel you slipping through my fingers, because your already gone. What am I supposed to say to you when we come face to face? When I look you in the eye, you see an old friend, and I see much more than someone I’ve known all my life.

I see you in the little things. A sunny day reminds me of the summers I spent with you. The first letter of your name always becomes stuck on my tongue. And its amazing the memories a hammock or a swinging porch swing can bring back to me. But you don’t think about me. I wish that would discourage me. Stop the daydreams and the dramatic phrases that tumble through my head and release from my fingertips. But it doesn’t interfere with my hopes. I’ll wait for you. For now I throw away the ink and quill, set my pen down, shut off the laptop. Sense you left me speechless and unable to write, I will simply wait.