There are no words for me without you.  Emptiness and loneliness fall too flat.  They're too cliche.

The air here, without you, it's thinner.  And joy seems impossibly foreign.

But even those are cliche.  Mundanities.

This without you, this thing without you--having known you for a fraction of a second--makes the entirety of life ahead seem too long, too hard.

Having known your lips.  The ecstasy of exhausted kisses.  The comfort of being your little spoon. Knowing I laugh like that for you. Only for you. Knowing this life devoid of you is missing numerous belly strains. Devoid of church giggles. Devoid of turning misfortune on its head.

You made my home where our hearts rested.

And without you, I find myself homeless.

I miss you.  It is too late to say that, of course.

I love you.  I am too mature to transgress in such a way.

And so I shall simply say, my dearest, good luck.

I hope your heart finds a place to rest.

It wouldn't be so bad if it happened to be near to mine.