I miss you sometimes. In the cool autumn morning and at night while it rains. I remember feeling that I loved you, and I remember knowing it in the rain in October.
It's harder now than it was before. Harder to understand what happened, and harder to believe in what you taught me. Because I still want to believe in it... I don't know why, but I feel like I must. It's become part of my breathing patterns, my quirks, my routines. It was so much of you and became so much of me.
I take the train more than I used to. I drink water more often now. I walk slower in the suburbs and slower in the city. I laugh louder, I think, and I re-read your favorite book at least once a month. Not because it's your favorite, but because it's my favorite now, too, and I don't want to let that go just because you decided to leave.
I hope you empty your pockets before you do laundry. I hope you speak in French without meaning to and in front of people who don't know the language. I hope you can find Cassiopeia in the night sky, and I hope you still have to listen to Schubert before falling asleep.
I hope that some day you'll remember that you left me here in love with you. I hope you miss me on hot nights and when there's so much fog in the morning, the entire city feels like a graveyard.
It's harder now than it was. But only sometimes.