I hate that you are always on my mind. I tell myself I really don’t mind that we do not talk any more. The brutal truth is that I mind! And worse, that it hurts – like a deeply seated wound that no salve can reach. Only a few months ago, it seemed the world was at our feet and that the sun would shine forever. A part of me wants to believe that you still care, that you still remember – I’m not sure it matters either way. We are done.
I have our stuff in a pile, the mementoes – title pages of books with my name inscribed in your unique cursive, the plaque from your work in Uganda, the emails printed out – the lot. Some day, when I find the courage to let go, and ignite the bonfire, I’ll set them alight. For now, maybe another swig at the bottle might help for once!