It’s been a month since we really spoke, and it will be forever until we do again. The last three times I saw you were in ICU’s. I woke you up by giving you a kiss the last time, and the smile on your face was beyond my comprehension. You were alive, and I was there and you recognized it all. We got frozen yogurt, you knew it’d be the last time your were in a hospital - you even started reading Vonnegut, every one of his novels, and I was so proud that you were turning it all around. We cried in my car four times; I remember each one distinctly, your slow, calm style of letting your head drop to my shoulder so tears could roll unbroken. I remember just up and buying sweatshirts at the first sign of fall two years ago, just because we had money and we wanted to get the hell out of this city. I remember throwing out my inhibitions sitting next to you on a night-drive during the drum solo of “In The Air Tonight.” I’ll remember a lot of things from now on, because we can’t make new memories anymore. You didn’t smile this time, and I wasn’t there, and you didn’t make it. You’re just asleep, and I love you.