i have a a cd of my favourite songs ('thinking of you' the very first on the album) wrapped in christmas paper, a present i never ended up mailing. a burned dvd of my dance concert (do you have any videos of you? you had asked) buried beneath a pile of books in my bedroom, patiently waiting to be given to you. there's a succulent on my windowsill, basking in the sunlight, facing towards the road, seeking your presence, your nurturing touch (you will never hold it's soil between your fingertips). i wrote a letter a month ago and never addressed it.
a plane ticket lies in my waste basket, ripped in a thousand pieces (much like my heart) in a moment of bitter rage. you don't know that, though. i bet you're waiting in england, kicking yourself for giving me such a hopeful present when i never gave you a thing (i never got the chance to).