People say I’m romanticizing you and making you better than you were. They remind me of your shortcomings. But I just keep reminding them of your dusty blonde hair and how it stood straight up in the morning. I’d brush it down while you made french toast and hummed softly along with the playing music. You told me we could stay in bed all day long. You’d cook us french toast and we’d pick at it all day and nap together and read together and make love. I wrapped my arms around your waist and could smell my perfume glued to your shirt.
I’m not romanticizing you. I’m trying to romanticize the pain of missing you. Make it into something beautiful. Meaningful. Not the toxic emptiness that spreads like cancer from stomach to heart to bone.