Oh, if I could. I have so much to tell you. I don't know where to start, really, but I feel like I owe it to you to try. Not really myself, however, for I'm so messed up and perfectly chaotic that I am not you. I don't know how you will get through this, but I know every step of every breath that gets you here. I know what makes you laugh. I know how you sing when you hear a song. I know what makes you question your life. And I know what makes you beg. These are still ours. And I hate that I know this. I hate that I can't tell you, either. Or perhaps I should. Perhaps I should spill everything to you. You would understand I'm sure. You would honestly probably give me better advice than anyone here has even thought; you'd surpass every attempt. But the leaves still fall to the Earth, and so you stay gone. Rip your tongue out now. Or don't. You'd be able to scream with or without it. Spare yourself that, at least. I know I'm avoiding the issue at hand. But I'm afraid you will deplore me for my feeble attempt at maintaining any sort of depiction of dignity. I, in the process of wanting to be everything for everyone, have lost you. I lost you in the once marvelous pursuit of love. I can't even form my thoughts in eloquent words, ones you find easy; everything is just too much. The incessant tearing of you from me goes against every change of the seasons, every spoken word. Joys now are conditioned to my sadness, and you are not here to break this. You are not here to hold out my heart to me, a smile oh so sweet, like a gift. Maybe that's why I'm so cold.

But I guess there is still hope for me.
(Though all I have left of you is the worst part.)
I still love him like you.