From your dying love.

I saw you today, or at least I thought I did. At that café that served that bitter herbal tea you insisted on drinking. ‘It helps open up the lungs.” Gosh you sounded like an old woman, your dressing didn’t help much either. I swear if it wasn't because I’ve been to your house, I would have thought you didn’t own a mirror.

I still hear your voice, or at least I pretend I do. In your sister’s voice when she casually calls to check up on me. In the songs we used to sing together, or rather-scream together. In the voice notes you sent when you were too lazy to text me. I still hear you.

I want to hear you.

It’s been what, nearly 2 years now. It feels longer though. No, not the years, but the absence. Your absence. The dull gloomy absence that gradually thickens around my chest. My throat. Choking me with every passing moment. Suffocating me. Reminding me.

But it’s nothing in comparison to the loud silence. Your loud silence.

As much as we’ve advanced as a species, you’d think we would have found a clear way to describe grief. No, not that screaming nonsense they show on tv, I still don’t understand your obsession with those Telemundo shows. Melodramatic. I mean real grief. The tug between silence and rage, throbbing pain in your head and heart and other parts you didn’t know existed. Darkness, not black but a void. So deep it draws you in, engulfs every part of you. All these words and I doubt I'll ever be able to explain how I feel. Or don’t feel.

All I do know is that I miss you.

Dammit I miss you.

Not just a part of you, but all of you. Your laugh, horse-like and hysterical, but genuine. Warm. Like the rest of you. Chaotic, but lovely and warm.

I don’t know what she expects me to feel after writing this. What I expect to feel. Maybe it’s comfort? Maybe peace? Peace from the guilt. I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling guilty. Not anytime soon at least.

But maybe I’ll feel better. I’ll feel warm. I can’t explain it, but I do know I want to feel warm again. The warmth you radiated. I’d be lying if I said it was a warmth you spread to everyone. You weren’t a silly book troupe. You weren’t fictional. You were real. That warmth, only I felt it. And as selfish as it may sound, I feel robbed. I want it back.

I want you back.

I miss you.