I write about you so much.
I write about all of the you(s) I remember—the one you were when we first met, austere and abrasive; the angry one; the one that cried in my arms about abuse suffered in childhood. I write about the way it was and the way I wanted it to be and the way it should have been. I write a lot about a ‘you’ that I assigned wrongly—a ‘you’ that you aren’t (weren’t, and won’t ever be).
I don’t write about you much, just a space that you once filled.