remembering, vividly, the dreams I had about you seven years ago, and the lust of eight and the poems of two, your vivid eyes and wicked grin filling in the devils of each tale I wrote before I found my footing–

no matter what time or I may do, some people’s names are simply etched inside your bones, their hearts too much of what you grew around to be plucked out of the person you’ve become.

I hope you understand. I cannot imagine you do not.