Six months. It’s been six months since you left me. And I have been thinking of you almost every waking moment of every day, and almost every sleeping moment of every night. The pain has not dulled. Time does not heal all wounds. That’s bullshit. Some wounds simply never heal. And this is one of them.
I don’t know what to say, except that I love you. And that I hate you sometimes, for literally dying on me. I hate you so much it feels like my blood has turned to liquid rage. And then I hate myself for hating you, because you never meant to leave me like that. It was an accident. The first thing I told you that day was that it was okay for you to go, that I wouldn’t blame you. And I meant it. But I had no idea it would be this hard. So, sometimes, I need to hate you to keep my sanity. You can only hate what you have loved, because these emotions are two sides of a same coin. And I love you so much.
You were a good boy. I want to say that I forgive you for leaving me, but I can’t make that promise. Because there are times when the hurt is just too great for me to be lucid enough to know that it was not your fault. To remember that I told you that you should not fight on my account. To be aware that I wanted you to let me know when you simply couldn’t take it any more. And that’s all you did. You let me know. So I did the only thing that I could do. I let you go. And I can’t blame you for that.
I miss you, buddy. So much. But most of all, I love you. Even through the anger and the hate, I love you. More than I could possibly tell. I love you. Don’t you ever forget that. I love you.