I've been writing you letter again.
I've been writing you letters again, but this isn't one. This is more of an archive of memories, but of memories that didn't happen, couldn't happen because you left. I know that you would tell me to no dwell on "what could have been," rather to move forward toward a future without you and to forget of all of this serious nonsense. But, you're gone and your advice means nothing to me now.
I always imagined that we'd move in together someday. We'd pick a small apartment on the third or fourth story of some concrete high-rise with at least two windows in every room, so our plants could eat the sunlight and I could smoke inside with my face pressed against the screen. We would spend weeks, even months preparing to move, packing and repacking, planning and replanning. Soon we would know where every picture would go and at which angle our bed would be. We would have drawings and sketches of the life that we were going to create, one with opaque drapes and floral throw pillows. I would daydr