I reread the letters you wrote me on a rainy Sunday two weeks ago.
The ones where you said I was the love of your life, how you wanted to spend your life with me, and that you were sorry for all the things you’d done.
The ones where you said things were different this time and that you promised not to leave again.
I listened to a video I recorded around this time last year just to hear your voice again and remember the inflection you had whenever you said you loved me so much.
Your voice still sounds the same but there’s something missing now and I can’t seem to place it, but I know it makes me feel very lonely when I think about it.
It’s not the same.
We’re not the same.
And with every passing day and every cancelled plan you slowly chip away at my soft exterior slowly replacing it with the old stone.
And my devotion along with it.