In my attempt to bring myself home, along the way I felt the loss. Grief shook me, and I wept.
I cried for the same reasons I slept all day; unspent love.
Love for you built and boiled through me while I shut out the world.
Obnoxious amounts of unsent messages clutter my phone, forever saved in drafts I'll never send. Because who would I send them to?
The years of my life you consumed are not forgotten. On the contrary, they play like movies behind my eyes.
I know no other way than to be dramatic about it all. To write again after so much time feels better and wrong. I should have been writing to you, about your feelings and your loss. And instead I typed the words you needed, then pressed delete every time. For that, I'm sorry.
What I feel now that you are gone is nothing to what you felt as you sat there alone and broken. Not even I saw just how broken.
As I weep for myself, your family, and all of the lives you changed, I can't help but think I could have saved your life.
Perhaps, if we meet again, I'll do better than this. I'll know what to say to keep you here.
Maybe next time this silence won't be so loud.