Know that I love you a way that I will never love anybody else, you wrote once, after the funeral.
Maybe I’m a fool. But you give me something special that I cant explain.
Do you know that nobody knows me like you?
We were 18 then. Our best friend had died. And we’d never live in the same country again.
But all these years later, though we haven’t spoken in our 30s:
I like to think you remember writing that, running your tongue over the envelope seal.
And perhaps I was truly the fool:
For I would always miss you, too.