I wish you were here.
Somehow, the days never seem quite as bright, nor the colors of the leaves as vibrant and no longer do they float ever so gracefully through the air, they just sink like anchors thrown into the ocean trying to bestill a ship. No longer does the sound of a yellow Ford mustang excite me, because I know you aren’t the one driving it; you will never pick me up from school; besides, you totaled it anyway. The winter always seems to get colder each year; I can never tell if it’s me or just the season. It’s as if my heart and Jack Frost are in a war, seeing who can freeze me first. I guess I didn’t love you enough, because the last time we spoke you were in the hospital being suffocated with cancer and I begged him to let you go. He must of knew that I wished in vain, because he choked that last bit of air out of you, and I watched helpless as the doctors wheeled you away.

I wish you were here.
I remember those nights when we both couldn’t sleep, and you stayed up the whole night crying, crying, crying for anything to take that awful agony away. You damn near broke my back with your scrawny arms, the way you clung to me so tight begging, begging, begging to never let you go. I never did, I never got the opportunity, and you were the one who forced me. While our fingers were intertwined like stitches, I felt the tear in my skin as you slowly shredded yours from mine; but you paused briefly to give me one last, spine-shattering hug. You undid the promise that kept you and I together, and before I could get to your side, you tore out your staples and bled out all that agony. (I wonder if she ever cleaned the carpet.)

I miss you.
I hunt down every headstone in every graveyard of every worn down and broken town; I try to visit you in my dreams but, my pain weighs to much for me to fly on fragile wings. I see you in the clouds and in my garden; I see you in the stars, and sometimes – in me. I could never find the right words to say, or the right gifts to give; I tried to lay you flowers but so shortly do they live. Now I own a canvas simply filled with roses; I have all the colors of the rainbow on a palate, even though I know paint and hopeful wishing can’t bring you back. Not even nostalgia cannot make up for all the lost hours, I waste my days away waiting for the both you to visit, so I can stop painting flowers.