Two... two weeks and three years. 2006-07-30 8:18 p.m.


I read and reread the letters you wrote to me... once a long time ago, or so it seems...

This week, I have never missed you so much. This week I have never been so sure of you... and of me... and I know this is never what you wanted, my friend... but this is all we've got.

It always meant nothing to you if it wasn't everything. Nothing - - - everything. There's no grey with you, is there? There is no red or pink or purple either... no blues or greens or yellows.

I've been partial to gold myself... it's very van Gogh... very... starry night... very me... and you... and you and me.

I wonder what genes you've left behind... I wonder if your seed will grow to live in fear... like you... I wonder if a girl will ever miss him the way that I learned this week that I can miss you.

Rhythmic...
the punctuated beat of my broken heart... of my memory... one arm above your shoulder, one arm below the other... the squeeze... the hold... the near... the miss.

I can live my days craving the last... I can live my life pining for a time when I had it all - or so I thought. It's everything or it's nothing, but it's never all, is it? There is no all.

This week I wished upon a night sky for you to miss me too, but I think you do... in your emptiness... in your heaven... It's all I have is to think.

I think you think of me all the time... and you fight your stupid head... you fight the miss... and the want... you fight it all for nothing... Nothing is what you wanted. Nothing is all you get from me.

I miss you. I miss your skin. I miss your voice... and I play it over and over and over again, like a maniac, just not to miss it anymore... I know what parts of me are crazy... but when it comes to you, there is nothing sane about my ache...

It's been weeks... it's been years... it's been a long day and longer night... and sometimes I can feel my hand in yours... sometimes... I can smell your shirt... I can feel you on my face...

I haven't missed anyone this much... since you died.

Strange... it takes blood for me to pine for you. It takes days of blood and angst for me to want to hear you. To be less angry that you've gone... to hate you less... yes... I do hate you.

It takes a loss bigger than you for me to want more of you - for me to know you're only hinge a squeek hinge, but a hinge nonetheless... I don't work well without you... but we don't work very well together, either...

Where did you go, my friend?

Where did we go?

Can we start over yet? Can you come back? Can we go back a year... or two... or four? Even six? Can we swing back to the days when we were sure? Can you curl back into the piece of my heart I kept for you... and if you have to die again, my Love, at least you can die there... for me... to preserve this.

To preserve you.

I know you don't understand self-preservation... I know you don't know how to fight... I know you don't know how to love me... when I'm loved already. You don't know how to share.

No one knows how to love me... no one knows how to share. We could work it out... from there... from wherever you are and I'm not.

What's it like for you without me? Do you read and reread every letter I ever sent? Do you watch as I cry in my hands for needing and wanting... for wanting and bleeding?

Does it appease you? Does it make you weak? Do you wish you could come back and hold me... arm over shoulder... cheek to cheek.

I miss you... but i wouldn't admit if you were at my door... I miss you... but I hate you more.


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