Not much happens anymore, ever since you left because you thought death was a better companion then me. I always wondered who it was you were sending notes to. There was never a return address.

It's much quieter now. I'm left alone in this now bigger home. The click and tick of the clock is the only sound that can overcome the silence that lays against the floor, making the air seem concrete so you feel all you can do is creep around this house.

They wanted to take your pictures down from the wall. The ones that took you hours to create. The ones that you spent hours drifting from shop to shop in order to find the perfect frame to frame perfection. I guess photos were one thing that you always had in control. I couldn't let them take them now.

In the silence, it's harder to sleep. It's harder to soak up the darkness that tickles my feet, because even though you no longer steal the blankets my feet are still never covered. I guess we keep some old habits, even when the old friends move on.

My mother is worried for me. She says I spend too much time in this grieving house. She says I need to stop addressing letters that will go unanswered, she doesn't know that I send these words to you. I open the letters and face each paper towards mirrors wondering if you will see them there. I'm told I stay there for hours, but it never seems that long.

Why did you never talk to me?