I wish that phone call was not the last time we had spoken.
I was walking home in the dark after a shift; you were calling at a bad time. I said something stupid. True, but stupid. You were always so sensitive. One wrong word and you'd turn the house upside down. You hung up on me.
I think a part of me felt obligated to talk to you that night after you stuck your head into that lawnmower. A substantial suicide threat and the world would tumble at your feet. Were you that manipulative? Or just sick.
I think about you every day. It's the kind of thing I can talk about now. But I listen to our songs when I want to feel close. And it still hurts. First love's wintery bows, long dead, can still crack the silence when broken.
This tome is really just a montage to you. Scattered with musings of other lovers. But mostly you. It's where I keep you, because there is no place for you now in my life. It's a sad thing, but I wish you read it. So you would know I care, despite the silence and space. And if you needed me, really needed me,