I still hear you, 

lingering in the back of my thoughts. 

Naturally intimate,  

but wasn’t that always the case? 

You spoke my language.  

An effortless intellectual romance. 

I still feel you, 

holding onto me and our innocence. 

Rebellious instincts, 

but can’t we blame my age? 

You were worth my punishment. 

 An embrace we didn’t want to end. 

I still see you, 

and the outline of your glasses. 

If only I could kiss you, 

but we’ve wanted that for over a decade. 

You’re my heart’s biggest regret. 

An empty, bottomless pit of ifs. 

I remember getting your letter in the mail. 

My chest started to tighten. 

You remembered me. 

It seems that we think of one another when we’re in our lows. 

Here I am, 

in a temporary low. 

There you are. 

Somewhere, perhaps even now with a family to call your own. 

Nonetheless, I hope you’re in a high. 

Ending this letter feels like our last goodbye. 

Wrong and useless. 

Old friend, I wish you well. 

As I know you’d wish the same for me.