I guess I should stop drinking. I mean, I should stop drinking and I don't mean just tonight, though the bar is closing. I mean I need to stop drinking for good, because when I drink, I just get so damn depressed. I laugh quietly at the thought; I've said that before, haven't I? But it always comes back to this, to the bottle. Bernie the barkeep kicks me out, tells me to go home and sleep it off. I can feel my head throbbing, and I'm already regretting the hangover in the morning. I go outside and watch as the bus I'm meant to be on pulls away, leaving me standing in the early morning light. Fuck. Spits of water fall on my face and I hear the rumble of thunder far away. Sighing, I pull my jacket tighter around my body, tucking my hands in the pockets and forcing my feet to move. It's nearing dawn, though I've lost track of time and space, but I'm pretty sure it's a Tuesday. Tuesday. It was a Tuesday when you got shot. I can still hear the crack of the gun as though it was yesterday, the crack of your chest as the bullet ripped through your heart and stole your life away. My feet are wandering aimlessly now, and I find myself wishing, again, that they were bringing me home to you. I loved the hold you had over me, the way I wanted to be with you even when I didn't. Every day I find myself wishing that you were here, just so I could have that again; so my feet would have a purpose. I hope that you've found someone to treat to right up there; someone to treat you just as you deserve. Lord knows, I never did. Not in the end, anyway. How many times can someone say they're sorry? I'm sorry.
I don't wanna give you up. The thought shoots [excuse the pun, love] through my mind and images of you and us and the time we had flash around my brain. The tears mix with the soft spot of rain of my cheeks and I smile slightly, remembering everything about you.
I'm fucking freezing. I can hear you laughing at me, telling me to harden up. The rain is falling harder now, thicker. Fat drops of water splatter my face as I walk through Upper Manhattan, dimly aware of the city waking up for a new day. This cold weather is abnormal for a July morning, it feels like New York is sulking along with me. Oh wait, I promised you I wouldn't sulk, didn't I? I'm not sulking. I'm just sad. All the time. I raise my eyes and look up toward the sky, steel grey and threatening. That's how you thought you came across that first day we met, but you didn't. You were so determined and fierce and so very beautiful, I loved you even then.
That rain cloud above me reminds me of the picnic we had that Summer; kissing you in the grass, neither of us noticing the weather turning, the summer storm soaking us in seconds. We both laughed. That was a good day.
I bring my wrist up to my face and watch the hands on my watch tick over slowly; they're moving slowly, restlessly. And I find myself asking the same question that's been plaguing my mind since the day you left: Why did I let you go? And there I have no answer.
I don't wanna give you up.
I'm so sorry.
I tried cocaine once; to see if it would ease the pain. The pain of what, I wasn't quite sure…the separation, the fight we had the day you died, you leaving me…for good. I didn't know, but it just made me anxious. And all this liquor just makes me sad. I don't sleep much anymore, not in the evenings anyway. So most of my afternoons are spent in bed. You wouldn't like who I've become; a shell of what I used to be. I know it's my own fault but I feel justified in saying it's your fault too. Because you anchored yourself in my heart and you tore it out the moment that bullet ripped through your own.
I wish you could forgive me. I wish you could take me back; cause by myself I'm broken. You're the only thing I've ever loved that really loved me back.
I can't give you up, Kate.
I love you and I'm sorry.
