I always say this will be the last time I write of you.
Your memories I dwell upon won't haunt me any longer.
You'll be the ghost of my past, holding the key that can open a box full of deep secrets, yearnings, and pain for what never was that can be opened at your desire.

But see, that never happens.
After all this time I still haven't moved on.

I think of you when I see an empty seat right next to me, wishing it was you to sit down and tell me how football is doing this year.
I think of you when I look at the stars and remember bouncing on the trampoline trying to touch them together.
I think of you when I see a clock, for we both know that the time that passed when we were together went by faster than we thought possible.
I think of you when I see an empty page of paper next to a pen, so ready to be detailed with intricate words and expressions.

You were a puzzle, a novel, a complete mystery.
And maybe you still are.
Perhaps it just isn't time to put the finishing piece of the puzzle, read the last chapter of the novel, and figure out the mystery.
But just think,
What if it is.