Ironic, isn’t it? I used to write to you. Now I write about you.
I’ve written so much in the past year. I couldn’t count the number of songs and poems I’ve scrawled onto computers and notebooks and iPhones. None of them have your name, but you were so deep in my soul I’m certain that if I read between the lines I would find your name saturating every word.
How does that make you feel? Permament, steady? Or do you feel uprooted? Because I can see the roots that you planted and I watered. I can go back and count every day that they grew deeper, like counting rings on a tree. They stretch from my heart to my brain to my fingertips and back again, and pulling them out has taken longer than I imagined. But the music helps, like it always does.
One word repeats itself — almost.
We were so close in so many ways. I thought I could count the distances on one hand. It was like chaos and order. I had your heart, all the way. You were gone, all the way. But there were more almosts than I had ever imagined.
You were almost who I thought you were. We were almost what I thought we were. We were almost that way forever.