I wanted to share Sunday morning papers and walks to church and Conan at 1 AM and feeling you stir against my arm when I put down my book to go to bed and you've already fallen asleep. I wanted to make you dinner and have it waiting for you when you got home with a can of Dr. Pepper with your name on it (not even joking, I'd write your name on it) and kisses goodnight and overwritten sentiments and notes on the end table that I left for you on my way to work and singing you to sleep with the songs that I wish I wrote and the books that get rearranged on the shelves because you were browsing and the "What did you want to do tonight?"s that would arrive at every 7 PM when we got home.
I wanted bills and a full mailbox and wedding invitations that we'd RSVP "yes" to and experimental recipes that would mostly fail but sometimes be met with wild success and inside jokes and barefoot in the kitchen and fights over who gets to pick the music we fall asleep to and my pillows smelling like your shampoo and all of the things that we could have had.
But it's time to let those go.
I'm sorry for anything unkind I did or said. I hope you'll find what you're looking for.