Sometimes I read your letters. Sometimes I go back through all the words you wrote to me, and I imagine you're still here. You're sitting next to me, that silly, stupid smile on your face. You look at me with that glimmer in your eyes, mischievous as ever, hair all ruffled like you haven't had a decent night of sleep for weeks. You probably hadn't. You had work to do, you'd say, but you just had to see me once more before you had to return.
I'd kiss you goodbye, before you leave, not knowing it would be our last.
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