I am not sure when that

day was. I was in New York with you.

We look tired and happy.

You’ve been gone so long and

now I have to work to remember.

I have so few things of yours,

I saved all your letters, although I

have never been brave enough to

read through them, in all

these years. I have a

drawing you gave me, a pastel

of a flower. A few photographs,

so pitifully few, considering

everything you meant to me and how

your dying would affect my

life, would leave such an

emptiness, would leave such a

silence, a loneliness.

I think I loved you more than

anyone on earth did.

Certainly you knew me better than

anyone else. I opened myself

up to you so easily, effortlessly.

It was natural to let you

in, let you roam through every

facet of my soul.

That’s what I miss the most, I guess,

there’s been no one else who’s ever

wanted to go there.

Only you.

by Cher Bibler