I can’t stop thinking of you lately. I don’t know why. I’d all but forgotten the feeling of you. Then I was driving home one day and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of you, of us, of all that we were and could have been. If I hadn’t been so selfish, so stupid. I fell for you all over again, in that moment. Could feel the tug of hope dragging my deflated heart forward, demanding that I fix what I had broken. But the the pieces are beyond repair — they crumble at my touch. And as I write this the tears fall; I can feel it all just as I did then. The guilt, the shame, the crushing enormity of my grief. So much love, with no place to go, slowly breaking me down until I was begging for it to be cease. And I can feel the hope of what we could have been, how it still could be. Or perhaps this is all nothing. Just my imagination — insanity. Nothing more than a manifestation of my insanity. Or does love truly never die and we just forget what brings it life? Either way, anyway, no matter in what way you look at it, we are nothing but the space in an empty grave. Nothing of us remains. So silly, for me to pretend anything otherwise.