It's been three years since you left,
three years of not hearing you in the kitchen on Sunday mornings,
three years of not seeing you sitting on a bed while you fold clothes,
three years of blowing out candles on a birthday cake without you around.

You left.
I can't make it any simpler than that.

It's been three years since I left, too.
You took something with you - a part of me that I didn't realize I had.
Three years of laying in bed and staring at a wall,
three years of going to therapy and speaking to a woman who can't be you.

You left.
It can't be more complicated than that.

Three years is a long time, did you know?
It's a long time without you,
I still wake up in the morning and think you're here.

Maybe it's because you left in the middle of the night, right before I fell asleep. You left in the most painful way - speaking in my ear, holding me.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Gigi.

You kept gripping my arm while you cried. It hurt and I'm not speaking about my arm.
Something within - that part of me you took.

You ripped it from me and took it with you into the night,
I want it back, please. That part of me was the
Me that loved you.

It was the better part of me,
the Me that wanted to breathe.

I don't want to breathe anymore.