If you were a story, you'd be several chapters long, with words that will tell of who you were, how you were and what you meant to me.
Letters will paint the picture of how I remember you, and, if I flipped the pages fast enough, our tragedy will unravel and unfold fast; a motion capture of how you never came for me.
And, after run-ons and paragraphs and so many full sentences, the last line would be a fragment, because that's the truth of what we became, what we are now and I don't know how to put it any other way.
People will read it, read about you, and you and me, and when they reach the end, they will puzzle and ask where the missing pages are.
I will take your book back (written for you, and only you, with your scent as the bookmarks, and your fragile smile as the spine), and my brittle mouth will curl as I try not to cry, and I will show them my empty pockets and tell them if only there were any.