To the lost

Weirdly enough, I have never taken photos of you. I have photos taken while waiting for you, wandering around your beautiful city, with those mountains that you loved so much in the background. I have photos taken while standing next to you on a rainy, when you told me how different poses of equestrian statues hold different meanings. The meanings, I forgot. I remember the time you told me how weird it was that I never photographed you, and that I should. I remember, every time we met again after weeks or months, the way you hugged me then looked me in the eyes before giving me a kiss. I remember the very first time I saw you in the train station, standing a head taller than everyone else like a viking and smiling like a child. I remember how oddly alike we were. The books we both loved, the news we both yelled at. How I would wake up in the morning with my neck sore from resting my head on your giant shoulder. But I have no photos, no stolen t-shirts, no presents. Because the presents you gave me, we always drank, and phone snaps and the selfies you used to send me all the time don’t count. What I have is emails full of words that should have been said instead of written. I have beautiful and terribly sad song that you sent me, that it could be never again only a break up song. I have our last exchange of silly messages for our birthdays last summer, only three days apart. I have this little fantasy of mine, now impossible, of drinking one day a coffee with you and start calling you a friend and no longer ex. To tell you in person that I'm sorry, and thank you.

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