Or you can't live without it.
And then you get older and you realize you can.
Want something.
And still live without it.
You talked about the things we'd do and oh, the places we'd go.
But you can't do those things now.
And you won't go those places with me.
So instead, dear one, do this.
Since you won't spend the summer beside me, spend it writing me a song.
Write me a song after that first song.
An album full of songs.
Record them in your room, with shoddy acoustics and your voice cracking on some high note after too many takes but keep it in there because it's authentic and it's real and it's flawed and lovely and it's you.
Spend the summer looking at the stars more.
Like every fucking night, not every once in awhile like you usually do, but fucking stare.
Hard.
Take a long ass look at how fucking beautiful they are, how far away, and yet, blindingly bright.
And spend the summer going on walks.
You love them and you never go on them.
Go on a walk.
Go on a walk and look at the stars and think of me, miss me, wish you were holding my hand, and then burying your face in the back of my neck as it got chilly and I stopped walking to stare at the stars too.
Spend the summer at the beach because we both love it even more than sazeracs and we've never been there together and that was where you wrote my first song.
Take your guitar and write another one and this one doesn't even have to be for me.
Write about the past year and the fucking mess of all of it and the loss and the love and the loss of love.
Spend the summer making breakfast, fucking master that shit.
It's my favorite fucking meal and your scrawny ass has never cooked for me and you claimed you can cook and I want those eggs fucking perfection.
And spend your summer watching movies, old favorites and black and whites you've never seen and watch one with Elizabeth Taylor and think of my raven locks you surprisingly got used to.
And then go to Iconic and stare at the giant photo of her on the wall there and remember how giddy I was when we sat there over brunch and I persistently resisted the urge to try and take a photo with you because I was so happy, so stupidly, utterly ecstatic to be eating Sunday brunch with you.
Spend your summer taking photos. Photos of anything and everything, the wonderfully strange people on the streets, your own handsome reflection you can't yet smile at. Post a few for me and I'll know you're thinking of me and spending your summer happily.
As happy as you can with us apart.
And in the fall, when it surprises you how quickly those months flew by, when you're back to your madness busy bee cram packed madness and you're go go going and you won't make time for walks or movies or songs anymore, lay in bed and dim the light low, and put on a song that makes you enjoy missing me, and smoke and let the memories flood you and remember when your sheets smelled of me and the way the salt on my skin tasted and softly exhale a "fuck."
And close your eyes and silently send love my way.
And in December, when the year is already nearly over and you think I've forgotten you and all of this, when you no longer know if you even believe it anymore, when it's my birthday and two weeks before Christmas find me.
And give me the cd you made me of the songs you wrote for me about the love you withheld from me and the walks you took without me and the stars that brought me closer to you.
And I will smile, no, glow.
To finally see that face, those eyes I fall so deeply into.
With twinkling Christmas lights shining behind you.
My favorite face, my favorite time of year.
And that effusive giddiness, the kind it overwhelmed you to look at will be standing in front of you once again.
And you'll tilt your head slightly, as you always do, and smile your sideways smile, and ask me, What was the best part of your day?
And I will beam, having waited for what felt like an eternity, Oh darling, how I have so much to tell you.
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