Dear Henry,
I went on a date last night. He was nice, funny even. But he wasn't you. His laugh didn't make my heart skip, his touch didn't send electricity through my veins. When he smiled, I found myself searching for your dimples.
I keep looking for your ghost in other men's eyes. I search for those stormy eyes, but find only ghostly reflections. I listen for the rasp in your voice, the one that always made my name sound like a caress. But all I hear is distant echoes. I yearn for the gentleness of your hands, the ones that always knew exactly when to hold me, when to let go. But these other hands feel foreign, wrong.
I find myself watching for the way you run your fingers through your hair when you're nervous, or how you bite your lower lip when you're deep in thought. I wait for terrible puns that never come, for debates about books we've never read. I look for the scent of coffee and old books and you, but it's always missing.
It's not fair to them, or to me. Or to you, though you'll never know. Every conversation feels hollow, every moment reminds me of what we had. What we could have had, if only I'd been brave enough to speak.
You once told me I deserved the world. I'm beginning to wonder if my world has always been you. How do I move on when every step takes me further from the only place I want to be? I'm lost, Henry, in a maze of my own making, and I can't find my way out.
Every man I meet is unknowingly measured against the impossible standard of you, and they all fall short. Because they're not you, Henry.
They'll never be you.
Still yours, even if you don't know it,
Celine
February 2016
