I must have called a thousand times, but I never heard your voice. Every day after forcing myself to drive into work, on my rare weekends off, late at night, first thing in the morning, after I finished buying groceries, before I threw in a load of laundry, and again when it was stiff and dry on the line. I must have called your name a thousand times, my voice expressing the emotions I felt when you were a larger part of my life. I shouted in ecstasy, remembering the juicy sweating mornings and tongue tied tequila flavored nights. I cried in pain, wailing into the void at the unfairness of life.
Sometimes I laughed a bit breathlessly, remembering the times you tickled my feet. Other times I whispered softly, careful not to disturb the wintering cardinals that were nesting in our favorite bush. I must have called a thousand times, ten thousand maybe, I lost track when I was going through old pictures, the few items of clothing I still had of yours losing their color, their shape, your scent. I grieved publicly and privately, ashamed, yet glad because for that short incredibly sweet period of time, we had had each other, and now I realize that you had been enough.
P.S. I still write you love letters.