You adored me.

You would take pictures of me. All the time. You said you wanted to capture every emotion I ever expressed and I would tell you to put the camera away.
You would pretend to, and then take a picture of me. My "exasperated" look, you called it.

You would take my hand in yours when you saw the goosebumps on my arm.
My hands were always freezing, and I told you to buy me gloves but you preferred to warm them yourself.

You would call me at night and read me Pablo Neruda poems in Spanish, because he is my favorite poet and I love foreign languages. You butchered it, by the way, but no sound was more beautiful to fall asleep to.

You would laugh at me when I got angry, which only made me more frustrated but you said it was cute. You liked watching my face turn red with fury and you liked watching my stamp my feet.

You would take me to the opera, even though you fell asleep every time, because you knew it was one of my only passions.


You left. It was too hard to come to me? To tell me what was wrong?
Yes, it was easier just to leave; no goodbye.

I adore you.