Dearheart, where have you gone?
Where is the girl who rode the bus with me all those years ago?

Tears don't stain a screen the way they do paper,
but even If I wrote this with a pen I'd have nowhere to send it.

I'm doing everything I can to forget you honey, but I know that I'll never be able to. How could I, when you own so much of my heart?

You've left pieces of yourself behind;
strands of hair, a pair of shorts, a shirt, your smell upon my pillow.

Tell me now, memory of my love, how now shall I continue without regret at what ought to have been?

How may I lay next to another,
and not think of you in your need?
To the more prosaic, how can I taste another woman without wondering what other fire may consume her after all the terrible things you've taught me about needs?

You have died to me, and I mourn your passing. And a part of me...perhaps the best part, died with you.