Dear

I tried to imagine you sitting beside me...

I was trying to use myself by writing a poem, but words just don't like to share

I just need somewhere to start, but don't we all?

The failure is mine, of course. I recalled the time you got me barefooted on your side. The weather was so cold and your breath was so warm, and you smiled. Large eyes shadowed by the light of a muted television. Sometimes I try to picture that smile. It's difficult I know, but the efforts’ almost worth it.

Gosh! This is why I just love the quietness; I spend my time having sex with words, remembering moments better as I wrote them than I do as I lived them. I spend my break ups in tragic sentimentality, inspired to write out of bitterness and neglect, motivated by self hatred and an unforgiving ego. You and I. we wrote while we could, left in despair when the words ran out and replaced themselves with a comfortable silence.

Even so,

I wish you were here.