Now that you’re gone, I know exactly what to say.*
I remember a lot of small things, things I know that would make you smile, and I see that smile when I close my eyes.
I see the way you would curl your hair out of your eyes with a finger, I see a bashful look, I see a heated gaze, I see a single tear.
I think of you when I listen to St. Vincent.
Not because her lyrics remind me of you, but rather because her music puts me in the mood for nostalgia, and her voice makes me want to weep.
The two are often synonymous, you know, often at unpleasant times.
I hate the fact that we failed, but glad to know you’re happy.
I have very little regrets in my life.
I see you laughing, and I know it’s not for me.
I cannot lie and say it no longer hurts, I don’t think that can ever change.
But part of me, a big part, really just hopes you’re happy in his arms.
Another part of me demands it.
You destroyed my world just to be with him, he better ******* make you happy.
I hear your voice when I take a shower.
Ok, maybe not yours, but yours and yours and yours.
I remember conversations that were too important to stop, so one of us would shower, and the other would sit in the bathroom, and we’d talk until the water ran cold, and the room was so foggy I’d laugh to see it climbing out.
I still draw back the curtain sometimes, expecting to see you sitting there, a half smile on your lips, a questioning look in those lovely hazel/green/brown/hazel eyes.
I love to drive, I loved driving with you even more.
With you sitting in the seat next to me, I felt that seat was always yours, and even now when other people sit there, I sometimes feel like they’re just borrowing YOUR seat.
Tonight, maybe tomorrow, I’ll go pick you up and we’ll drive off for a while.
Then you’d snake your hand across the console, and let your fingers brush mine...
I lived for those moments, and I never told you how important they were.