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I let myself think about all of the things that come to mind when people who know our story ask me what the hell I saw in you anyway. And I do remember what I saw in you. I do. 

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It’s 2:30 AM and all I want is you in my bed.

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I miss you on late nights and rainy days. My sheets and pillows smell like you.

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You miss the shelter he provided, the umbrella when it rained, the kitchen connoisseur, the sunlight in the morning. He was the structure, and you were the glue.

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I miss you the most late at night. Late at night when I’m alone wondering what you’re doing.

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My bed grows three oceans wider and four arctics colder on Sunday mornings.