I miss you more now than when you were mine. When I sit down without anything to tie me over I slip into thinking about you, the sight of you at the Santa Cruz bus stop at 10 o’clock at night in March, your delicate body, your high cheekbones, your eyes, your fun facial expressions, your voice. You had dressed up for me the night I came in and I was happy and proud of our relationship. I knew that I wanted to be with you that time I spent with you, I wanted you for my wife. We didn’t make it work – could we have done something new to avoid five years of the same roadblocks? Did I not fight to save what should have been saved? – then my indecision cost us even the chance to say goodbye to each other. All I have are people’s comments on the issue: Wendy: “It’s fucked, she loves you, you love her. You should get married.” Sahondra: “I don’t know this God that doesn’t want the happiness of His children.” I think I’m right, and think I’m wrong at the same time; I wanted to give you everything and couldn’t go past the line, I couldn’t give you quite everything. It doesn’t even matter if anyone’s right, all that matters is that we can’t be together, that we aren’t together. Now sometimes when I drive my car I see the empty chair next to me where you should be. We should be driving together and you would be my wife, sitting there, excited to be going somewhere with me, anywhere. We would share the same bed, you would be sleeping there next to me, beautiful woman. But you’re not there. I didn’t get to be with you as much as we both wanted. I feel your absence from my life, the presence of your empty place. I love you but I can’t tell you; now I’m not allowed to. I need someone to take your place or else I will drag around the sadness of you not being next to me, but another person cannot really take your place.
