it's almost four thirty.

I've been watching television alone. It's nice to be able to lay down now, but I remember when you would sit at the other end of the couch, and we would laugh forever. You would look at me when you thought something was funny to see if I was laughing too. Even if I wasn't laughing, I would pull out a smile for you. Just to be nice. Not to be nice because I was afraid of being not nice...but because being nice to you was just how it was. It was just what came out of me when I was around you: nice.
People laugh at the word. But fuck, I don't know how else to describe it. Just being alive, and walking past me most mornings in your underwear, or towel, I'd be smiling stupid...just cause you were walking past me in the morning.
Even when you were depressed, you were exciting. Always. And not for anyone else's benefit but your own. It was easy for you to be exciting. Although, you weren't excited when you were by yourself. You often got very lonely. You didn't know what to do with your alone time.
I miss you so fucking much. There's nothing to do with this feeling, because I didn't tell you anything about it. No one knows except everyone..but not you. No duh. There's a letter, third drawer down in my blue dresser. It's wrapped in some thin rope I found under the desk at work. It's written on three sheets of small paper. Purple, then orange, then purple. I always hated that color combination. But yeah, the letter's for you. And if you happen to see this, which you won't, but if you do, you can come into the house, go upstairs into my room, open the third dresser and read it.
It's a dumb letter. Full of bullshit and warmth. You're an idiot.
Still can't figure out why you wanted to sleep next to me every night for a week, until one night I cried and you left. I didn't even say anything.
I guess sometimes people just want to sleep in beds with people.
I guess sometimes you can say that we are good people and that we are so much alike and that we deserve someone as good as us.
I guess sometimes you can spend every downtime moment with someone, sneaking cigarettes in the basement, and playing harmonicas together and making gravity bongs and searching for roaches and talking about everything until 4:30 am most times...and never say a word about how you feel...even if you feel nothing.
I guess this happens.
Dangit, i love your hands.
You go out in public wearing the dirtiest clothes, and the ugliest outfits.
You're fucking wonderful. And I'm too stupid to let go.