When You Left

18

11. 08. 13.

        Do you still think of me?

        I hope you do.

        I really fucking hope you do.

        I hope that you think of me every time you see a beat-up truck. I hope that you see them all the time. I hope that you always get stuck behind an old truck because they’re doing a 30 in a 40 lane and you can’t pass them. And you’ll get angry because the girl in your passenger seat is complaining about traffic and you missing your dinner reservations. I hope it reminds you of when I used to make you play ‘I Spy’ during rush-hour to pass the time.

        I hope that you think of me whenever you light a cigarette. I hope you see the ghost of me stomping it out and the image makes you nauseous so you stomp it out yourself. I hope that a cigarette never grazes your lips again because you remember how I berated you for it.

I hope you think of me at your future book signing, and wonder if I am somewhere in line. I hope that when you go to the fair next you will look for me in the crowd. I hope that the next time you go to buy vodka, the checkout girl will have a smile like mine and that you will be too ashamed to even look her in the eye.

        I hope that you will miss me when you’re alone in bed at night. I hope that you will think of me when you are on top of another girl and I hope you scream out my name.

        I hope you think of me when you pass by Daisies, when you see a corgi, when you watch Harry Potter, when you read Wuthering Heights, when you drink whiskey, when you listen to Elvis, when you see a girl with blonde hair, and when you have conversations with other people that share my opinions.

        I hope that I am always on your mind. I hope I live in it.

Because you’re always on mine,

Daisy