I want to talk to you, but you aren't here.

When I stretch my arm out on to your side of the bed at night, I long to feel you solid and safe beside me. But I don't. Instead my fingers brush cold, empty sheets, and I have to stop myself from burying my face in to your pillow, cool and white like a mound of snow, and howling like the wind. I remember when I'd wake shivering at night to find the whole sheet tangled up around your long, long legs, and we'd snap at each other in the darkness until we both agreed that spooning would be the best option for us both. I'd freeze all night if it meant I could have you back.

I miss hearing your voice in the morning, watching you prance around the kitchen as if we weren't miles away from that tiny rehearsal room in Ohio, where our voices would make magic. I can't listen to music anymore. All I can hear is your voice, pure and lovely like wind chimes on a summers night, drifting in between the screeching tones of some industry processed, pop princess wannabe. Their melodies are like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.

If I'm honest I miss the sex. I miss feeling you inside of me, knowing that there was nobody else on Earth closer to you at that very moment. I miss feeling your teeth drag gently down my chest, your nails digging possessively in to my back… Don't give me that look. You were possessive. That's why we argued that night. That's why you got in to your car and sped off and - and-

I can't.

I can't bring myself to remember that night. But that's all I ever do - remember it, I mean. I can still remember the grim look on the face of that bald, over weight police officer, the look that told me what had happened before he had even opened his mouth. I can still hear the blood curdling scream of inconsolable pain and grief that escaped your fathers lips when I phoned him. I never imagined your father could make such a sound. But then again I've had to get used to a lot of things that I couldn't imagine recently.

Where are you?

I like to imagine that you're some place you could call home. Perhaps you treat your cloud like a stage, tip toeing ever so delicately on the sheep's coat of pearly white vapour whilst the other angels clap adoringly at your feet. I hope you found your mother. I never knew her but I know that she'd take care of you. I can't bear the thought of you being alone or unprotected.

I think you should know that this is the last letter I'll be writing you. Instead of shoving this one in to a box at the back of our wardrobe like I have with all of the others, I'm going to screw it up and hope that my memory of you screws itself up too. I have to let you go. You are an anchor, dragging me down in to the depths of an ocean. I can't reach the bottom of that ocean, Kurt. I can't wallow in the dark, cold sea of my thoughts anymore.

I have to let you go.

All of my love,

Blaine.