OK fine. I'll write about him.
I think a lot about the things you left me.

1. The ability to get excited about anything. "I'm excited." But for me it isn't a lie, while I think it always was for you.

2. Osama bin Laden didn't make his bed. So make yours.

                            (Is yours made? Bet not.)

3. A note that says "Prouda you." Were you?
Will anyone ever be? Will I ever be "prouda" me?

4. The word "scran." That's a good one.

5. A toothbrush too big for my mouth, that tears at my gums every time I use it.
                     Every morning, every night, sometimes mid afternoon.

6. The knowledge that, as soon as I start loving my own skin, the person I want most won't want me anymore.

7. Pictures of us in Christmas sweaters.
                      Or your *** all over my face.

8. The inability to keep my phone by my bed, lest I look for you in it late at night.

9. The sneaking suspicion that God makes mistakes.

10. An obsession over the moment when you stopped caring, and the quantity of time in which you lied about it.

11. The uncovering of my festering holiday crock *** of false hope, which has now boiled over into waves of sloppy disillusionment.  

12. Deep suspicion of my own hopes, dreams, fantasies... and other's professed goals.
                                          Nothing is achievable.

13. A need to hear it from your lips, what a piece of ******* **** you turned out to be.

14. A hatred of ****.

15. The memory of the sound you made, when your lips said
                                                                                                           Til.