Even if you never read this, you'll still feel it. I am erasing you, slowly. I am learning to forget as a self-defense mechanism. I am making an artform of my own heartache as an enviable talent. I am making small but meaningful improvements. I am making something millable out of this, I am. I am milling around in the quiet space you left, feeling fragile and raw. I am not a nostalgic person. I am not a very good person. I am not eating all my meals anymore. I am starting not to love you anymore. I am starting to adore my own unlikely need. I am starting to like it. I am sure you know by now: I am taking nothing back, even if I am the one you are losing, remember? I can't read maps. I could mill a life so full, there's no room for you anymore. I don't feel like a ghost. I am not a ghost. I don't know anything for sure anymore. I don't tell you everything I am thinking anymore. I don't tell you what I'm thinking anymore. I don't want to haunt you anymore. I finally realized it was the compass that was broken. I finally realized the map wasn't even right, and anyway I have a bad feeling about all of this. I have a question with a devastating hypothetical inside of it. I have no rules or secrets anymore. I keep ripping pages out of my notebook. I keep saying I am trying. I know you'll be okay without me, but not the same. I love you less and less. I meant everything I ever said to you, even if I never said I would keep searching until I found you. I never said I would. I once had a long list of questions for you, but I answered them myself. I still think of how beautiful you are, how I suspect you will grow to miss me terribly. I tore your pages out of my diary and stopped writing your name. I touch my own sweet and nervous spine now. I try to focus on the things I dislike about you. I used to be yours; now I am mine. I used to imagine: [ ] I used to miss you all the time. I used to want to talk to you even when I was talking to you. I want to be let in, I said looking at your diaphragm. I was your first full stop, wasn't I? Wasn't I? I will still be the death of you. I wish I could. I wish I didn't. I wish I wouldn't. I would do it all again, but I wish I wouldn't. I would do it all again, even if it just took a long time. My dear, my darling, my dark cloud. Okay, I did. "Write down everything and of course you'll remember things" When it's over (and it's almost over, I promise) just know you cannot possess a thunderstorm or bring one back from the dead. "You wish you didn't," I read somewhere. Your face fits your face. Fits the palms of my hands.