Eight

I dont write letters, I never have.  I never wrote love letters that could be hidden away in boxes to be found years later and laughed at.  It wasnt me.  I cant even talk about her, because every time I do, a new memory appears, and I dont want to deal with them.  I push it away and try to live life the best I can, without thinking to hard on the subject.  I will never get over it.  I wont ever stop loving her.  Its been eight years today.  And as I have said before, life has moved on, things are ok.  But eight years.

Eight years without her.  Sometimes its too much to even dare think about.

I wrote this the other night, and the only reason I put it up is because I am always quick to burn or delete things like this.  And I wanted to keep it.  Somewhere.

I lay in the quiet darkness of the night as the clock slowly slipped past the next day.  I lay, listening to the rain – Im holding a picture of you close tonight, because its as close to having you back in my aching arms as I will get.  Tonight I grieve for us.  Our simple innocence, we were so young.  I say we because I died that day too.  We were the kind of young fairy tails are made of but the day was the kind that horror stories and nightmares come from.  We were so young.  I always said I did the best I could with her for two years, but her mama couldnt wait any longer.  I died again that day.  We were so young when it happened. I miss you, my love.  For always.

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