Monday, January 19th, 2015,
I took down your photograph that sat on the shelf above my bed. I stored the birthday card from my 21st, along with the letter I received a week or two back, in a folder with bills, ticket stubs, and traffic violations. For the first time in fifteen months I took off the necklace, the 'a' written in your hand style, that you gave me for my 20th birthday. All that remains are two roses, wilted in a tall glass beside the kitchen sink. I barely notice them anymore, but I can't throw them in the trash with my stale takeout thai food, as if they were always dead in the first place. Is there no ceremonial 'goodbye' for the smallest of life?
I'm not sure how much longer I want to do this because although I think about you at all times throughout the day, you are no longer the last thing I think about before I fall asleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up. Now it's, 'fuck, when will I fall asleep,' and 'okay, I'll feed you, Roosevelt.'