One of these days, he's going to write you a song.

One of these days, he'll be sitting in a pub with the lights husky and his brain muffled, and he'll run his fingers over the battered piano's keys. They'll be slightly sticky - his won't be the only drunk hands that have caressed them.

He'll tentatively start to work at them, a melody will form as if by accident. It'll be nothing spectacular. It won't be awe inspiring. It won't be destructive. It'll be quiet. It'll be gentle. It will haunt you for nights on end. It will remind you of something you've heard before. It will be just like his love for you.

He'll forget about it by the end of the evening. He'll drink himself into oblivion because if he sees you in his mind one more time - your head thrown back, blonde hair around your shoulders, eyes so light and alive, he'll go mad. He wonders if he's mad already. He certainly feels it most days.

In the morning, he'll find himself at the piano again. This will be a different piano. This piano will be a work of art in itself, he'll wonder if he deserves to use it. He does, he does, he does.

He'll flex his fingers, his eyes will go to your bracelet around his wrist. And he'll play. His fingers remember what his mind doesn't.
It might be a long piece, he won't ever be sure if it's finished. He'll call it "In Memoriam" publicly. To himself, he'll title it "An Apology in Motion"

He'll wonder if you'd have liked it, if you had ever heard it.

You would have. You loved everything that he created. You would have told him this, one day.