It’s been six years since we met. I’m sorry I didn’t get to write to you on the day, but you always said I should go and smile more often. Yeah, well fuck you. Congratulate me, I only had three panic attacks on Friday, I seriously think I’m getting better. It’s so surreal to think I’m growing old and you aren’t. It’s makes my skin crawl and my heart soar. It’s the sort of feeling you get when you forget something and you don’t know what it is, so the information just stays at the back of your head, waiting, prodding and making you want to to claw at your brain and get it out.
The age difference between the two of us was so beautiful. It made me feel safe and it made you feel… well, illegal is one way of putting it. I miss you, my love. I miss you every day and every breathing moment – that presence of the back of your head. I keep thinking what life would be if I stayed home that night. If I read a book instead. If I didn’t put stilettos on, or if I left home earlier.
I like to think I would have met you at some point. The sort of blind, almost religious love we shared is impossible to avoid, and I like to think that I would have met you a month or a year later. I like to think that things would have been different, and maybe you’d be here with me to celebrate the day we met.
If you can hear my thoughts, or read my words, or even remotely know anything about my life, you must fucking hate how much it all revolves around you. The same words, the same feelings, over and over again. Surely you can’t stand it anymore.
You shouldn’t have gone then, my love.