I want to share the stars that have long since left your eyes and the scars on your shoulders from a weight that you were far too young to bear.
I want to be the constellation that you can never quite fathom and the quiet night in that you always ask for, even if it isn't out loud.
I want to show you everything that I have ever loved and everything I love about you.
And I know that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side but if I have to lose I want to lose myself in everything you are.
From your awful jumpers to your wonderful tea and obsession with jam.
From the fact that you put up with me to the nights that you couldn't.
I'm sorry that I can't be there for you now, but please see me in your stars.
Please know that I'm silently hissing at that awful beige jumper.
I'm sorry I didn't use the honey pot for the fingers… I will next time.
Please know that after you commented on my not having read any Agatha Christie novels, I read half of The Secret Adversary.
And hated it, but that's not the point.
When you think of me, please think of the night we chased that cab through the streets of London and ran back to the flat, breathless, and how you looked at me like I was crazy when I told Mrs. Hudson you would be moving in with us.
I don't want to fall apart before I meet you again, and I want so badly to come home and bring milk.
I'm sorry for the times that I took you for granted and the times I didn't notice you were away…
I hope you can forget me.