I have two hands. They're discolored and awkward, but they used to fit perfectly in yours.
It's been 83 days since I have spoken to you. The last thing you said was, "I'll talk to you tomorrow." I walked away from you car, clueless to the pain I would be feeling throughout the next three months. If I knew that was going to be the last time I would ever speak to you, I would have told you so much more. I would have told you everything. My fears, my dreams, the reason that I asked you so many questions, all the letters I wrote to you, every dream, every last thing. Everybody told me that every broken heart mends itself eventually, and that has been happening lately. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to. I only think about you at night. Part of me really misses you. Part of me knows that everything happened for a reason.