"I wish that we could talk about it,
but there, that's the problem..."
When you were alive I would mask this using our inside language. But now it's just for me, I suppose, so we may speak plainly.
I'm happy you don't come to me, in a way. If I felt any lingering presence of you, it would be hard to swallow, but because I don't, I know you're really gone.
You were the only personification of anything spiritual in my life. So, physically, it seems fine that I don't feel afraid of seeing your reflection in my mirror, of nestling against a ghost in my bed. If you were here, isn't that where you'd be?
My soul is tormented, though. As though... as if it were a physical entity, it had been partially scooped out. Some part of me is just not here anymore- it went with you.
What had you done? How do they not know? Why have you not come to me in a dream at least and explained yourself? Wasn't that our place?
I have hundreds, maybe thousands, of questions for you now. I have a hundred regrets.
You called me six days before you died:
Hey it's me, um, I was just hoping that maybe one of these days when I called, or if you ever felt like calling, that maybe we could, you know, talk like the good friends that I hope we are... I just miss catching up... So...I know you're busy, so... there's like...I'd like... so... If you get a chance... catch up... hope... it's... hope it's not...
Halfway through the message, your voice cuts out.
And I'll never, ever, get to ask you what I missed.
It's funny, listening to your voice... it's like 5 years ago. It's like Orange.
I'm so glad I didn't go to class all those times that I was hanging out with you instead. That is not one of the hundred regrets.
I will continue to try to not have regrets about our past, y'know, before the last couple times I saw you. The only things I will feel okay about regretting are the recent traumas.
I miss not having those clothes of mine you wore anymore. I'm so mad there aren't more pictures of us. I hate sounding like a broken record when I try to "talk" to my friends about losing you, like I'm more trying to explain our relationship than my loss.
I guess I don't have your other voicemails because I got a new phone a couple months ago. So I hate getting the last one wet.
I hate that you never came to Austin. I hate that I dissuaded you from visiting. I hate the way I decorated my living space, with reminders of you, but more than that, when I took everything down and put them into one place as a vigil for you, the empty spaces reminded me more that you were gone.
I hate that you will never know my children, if I ever have any, and that they will not know you. That my future partner(s) will never know you or worry about you or worry about us together.
Of course, I hate that I distanced myself from you to spare myself of pain, suffering, and heartache, only to receive all those things despite my distance, and in addition, missing you, and all your beauty, and all both had to offer me in the interim.
I hate that we left so many things undreamed.
I hate that I don't remember more. I hate myself in the polar opposite way in which you loved me. Your love should fill me and help me persist, but I'm not there yet. I hope I can be sometime.
I, I, I, I hate there isn't, and hasn't been, and wasn't more you in my vocabulary.
I hate thinking, "no one understands." Because you did. And now that you aren't here, I'm just not sure that I'll ever be as close to whole as I was with you.