This is dedicated to all the ones I had sworn to stop writing about.
The last three or so times I saw you I was still full of feeling; so overflowing that the words kept coming long after you had faded from vision. I said I’d stop telling your story because your story was the only one I ever told. But now I have nothing to tell and I miss it.
I am empty. I am the kind of hollow and the kind of sad you always helped me out of–if I ever felt it at all with you. I feel too much of it and I miss you too. So here I am: not for the story, but for the telling.
I hope you won’t mind much, because ghosts rarely feel anything at all. If anything, I think they’d like to be remembered. I know I would, if I were a ghost. Especially if I were yours.