You went away one summer day when I was fully prepared to make the commitment.
I spent all summer frustrated. Angry at myself. I moped about my life with a frown.
I thought the heat that summer was what made you disappear, but even when the leaves began to change colors, you still didn't reappear.
I laid on my couch for a majority of my days; the television not even able to lift my spirits.
If anything, as the days passed without your reappearance, I started to give up on you. Everything involving you started to gather dust.
You didn't return until a year later, seeming to be bursting at the seams with things to tell me.
I shouldn't have welcomed you back so easily, but I couldn't help it all the same.
Every writer goes through this kind of pain.