How Terrible It Is, To Love Something Death Can Touch.

Hi, I miss you. I love you. Where are you? Why aren't you here? Do you miss me? I hope you're okay. I hope you're fantastic. I hope it didn't hurt. I hope it didn't hurt too much. Please smile at me one more time. Please. I hope you aren't in pain wherever you are. I wish you could talk. I wish I could feel you around me. I wish I could feel your embrace. Were you scared? Were you thankful? Do you feel regret? Do you feel cheated? Do you even feel? Do you know how much I love you? Did I ever tell you enough? I talk to you sometimes. You're beautiful. I wish you still existed. Hi, I miss you.

  I've been thinking about you consistently for the past hour or so, and then I got caught up in that concept. For as long - or as short, or as well, as I knew you was the result of the amount of time I spend thinking of you now that you're gone. I don't think about you every minute, every hour, or even every day. But I think about you. It comes and goes because time passes with each tick of the second hand and aches like the pulse behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls and I grit down and bear it.
Someone thinks about you every single day. Someone thinks about you multiple times every single day. How much time did they spend with you? How little time? How well did they know you? Should I be jealous that someone knew you better than I did if they consumed less of your presence? Should I be angry that I don't think about you more often? That's absurd.
I just want to turn the corner and feel my heart swell when I get to see your smile in flesh and colour. When I get to embrace you and stroke your wig-less boy hair and for a moment know that you are safe. And it wouldn't matter - all the questions, all the things I want to say but haven't been able to, all of the chances that were taken away for you to be a part of my life. I would be lost in the safety net.

  Hi Tamarra, I miss you.