There's an art to everything

Why must summer always smell so like heartbreak?

Here is what I want to say:

Last week I found your sweater in my closet. I looked at it, didn’t quite know what to do, and without really thinking I bunched it up in my hands and smelled it. It didn’t smell like you anymore.

I am a coward.

I miss talking to you.

Here is what I will say:

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I do miss you. I know you think I don’t, and after all of this I cannot imagine that you miss me. But I miss you. When I was trying (vainly, as usual) to fall asleep last night I remembered opening my door and stepping into your hug and feeling so safe—your arms wrapped all the way around me.

I miss our nights on my rooftop, drinking too much wine and telling too many secrets and staying up too late and analyzing every feeling and every thought and every fear.

I miss the way you understood me and the way I understood you, and I miss our friendship so, so much.

But, as usual, I have treated you badly, and I am too much of a coward to come to you and say “I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I miss you.”  

“Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

(A.A. Milne, “Winnie the Pooh”)

““Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing

there is a field.

I’ll meet you there.”

(Rumi)