I wish you were here. I wish I didn't have to sleep alone tonight, my memories of you and an image in my head are all that accompany me through those nighttime hours. I wish that I didn't bring home Chinese food for one. I long to see the ever-shifting constellations in my ceiling again. My eyes are now blind to them, looking instead for a smile, the soft curve of a cheek, the glimmer of an eye. Those are all absent now. Books aplenty, though. I need them to keep my mind away from you, send it exploring other countries, distant lands. I need to keep myself from coming home. This place reeks of loss. That is my own fault, I suppose; I never really got around to cleaning up the heartbreak. Sometimes I wish for other stuff. Smaller things. I wish for the cold snow freezing my feet while I walk you to your car. I wish for another lazy day by the pool. I wish for a million more chances not to be the guy that made you walk away. I wish for a lot of things lately it seems. Another span of nights, yet another string of thousands of words I never got to say to you. Sometimes I imagine I've a sixth sense. It's only purpose is to let me know when you're around. It doesn't work like a metal detector, chiming in the presence of the desired, but rather the absence. It screams and whines and begs and pleads with me when I get too far away from you. It's how these thoughts have felt this last year. A siren drowning out all but the most important of stimuli. It would be impossible to just find someone else and move on. I've tried. I know you're happy with the way things are. Happy with him, whomever he may be. I'd love nothing more than to move on and give us both the chance to be happy. But every emotion I experience without you is dulled, their edges worn useless by this insane obsession. I spent ten years telling myself I could be satisfied if you were happy. It's not true though, is it? If I peeled back the layers and really looked at what I found in there, that kind of selflessness doesn't apply to you. I can't say I don't want to be with you. Not with any degree of honesty. You're too important to me. So for me to even try to get over you by meeting someone else, it would have to begin with a lie.