Words...

Running out of cards to write you, I sit here filling the pages of my journal.  Ripping them out to fill envelopes of my words to you.  It’s become part of my every day.  Sharing my words with you as I did when you were here.  Sharing my thoughts and fears.  With each page I rip from this book I notice it grows slimmer.  With each page that leaves, it’s as if my words to you are coming to an end.  Surly, this couldn’t be true.  We always had so much to say before we closed our eyes each night.   

With the words I have left I will only speak of love, not of the hurt and heartache.  For I, have hurt myself for far too long.  With the pages I have left I will fill them with the song you brought into this life.  As with every great composer, you will leave this world, but your song will play in the great empty halls of my heart forever.  That bowed harmony will always remain in my existence.   

As I kiss you goodnight each night, I rush off to dreamland, hoping to find you in that same sunset at that same bench that our initials were carved into that July fourth.  I rush not in hopes of you telling me that you'll be home soon; rather you are helping me to find those lost pieces of my happiness. 

After so many words, I tend to get lost.  Simply because there's so much left to tell you and not the time.  At times I feel that my words are the only thing keeping me from going everywhere at once.   

I’ve written you this letter forty-two times and sealed it with a stamp, only to throw it in the trash.  Hoping you would come home one day with a weary heart and find it.  Now on this, my forty third time, I’ve realized what I’ve always known, that the time has passed and there is no you, coming home.