Yours,

          You have caused the salutation and signature of this letter to reverse. You belong only to yourself and I suppose it should be the same for me, but you will always hold something of mine. I am not less because of it; I have and always will have the full complement of myself. But you carry something that is me as well.
          I am angry about this. Why should you have some of me to take away, like a doggie bag of our year and a half? You should be stripped of me, I want to reabsorb that piece, I want to be greedy and have all excesses of myself back.
          There was something else too, something that was not just me but something that we created together, something that we shared and was more than you plus me. It has died now; you cut it in two and each half has perished of loneliness. That is what I feel like I have lost. A part of it died inside of me and compressed itself into a hard little ball that sits in my heart. Sometimes I forget it is there and then I feel its calcification against the soft parts of my body and I collapse and re-realize what it means.

Mine.

Mine,

          You are blah, blah, blah, something-or-other. Murmur murmur mumble hum, sigh.

Yours.

Mine,

          I do not enjoy missing you. I had forgotten that it hurts a little bit to miss someone; I suppose I cannot love to be with you so much without it hurting to be without you. You and me together are more than the sum of our parts. When we’re separate, we are both missing that difference, that creation.

Yours.

Mine,

          Today someone I haven’t seen in years asked me about my love life. A big stupid grin appeared on my face and I couldn’t shake it all day.

Yours.

Mine,

          I am not inspired. This page was blank for so long, my fingers poised over the keys to play scribe to the muse that is missing you, but nothing. There is no poetic language in me tonight. No flowery prose, no clever literary devices, not even any cliché. Today there is only *****, raunchy and blunt: I want to ******* so badly I ache.

Yours.

Mine,

          Today, I simply, if not originally, wish you were here.

Yours.

Mine,

          Clouds gather ominously. The creak of a decrepit windmill cuts through the howling wind. Still, crickets are chirping, until the rain starts. I stand at the screen door, watching the clouds swirl and the windmill turn slowly, listening to the light patter of rain changing into a pounding downpour, feeling the angry wind lashing me with spray, thinking that this could only be better with your chin on my shoulder and your arms around my waist, keeping me warm through the storm.

Yours.