Another year alone.

Fuck, I miss you.
It's been 19 years.
I want to talk to you.
So much to tell you.
But you, my best friend, are gone.
Sometimes you show up in my dreams.
In those dreams, I never seem to know you're gone.
I don't recognize and appreciate how rare and amazing your presence is.
In those dreams, I don't think to say all the things I should tell you.
Perhaps, if I could have said those things and held on to you tighter while you were here, you wouldn't have left.
Speculation sucks.
Regret sucks.
Grief sucks.
Fuck, I want you back.