I can feel your nose against my cheek. I’m driving down the 805, but you are saying hi and your nose is cold, but I know it’s your nose. I want to close my eyes and pull all the memories into my now, but I’m driving and I can’t. You persist and put your chin on my shoulder. I miss you too, babe. I do, but it’s not the right time. Can you come back later? Can you visit me when I’m still and can close my eyes and imagine you? I can’t take this. Your cheek is against mine now and I remember your touch, your feeling, your caress. The small stubble you’d have as you were so conscientious to shave for me. Your jaw. Your cheek bones. The coolness of your skin as you were always sweating. It makes me cry. I’m driving and you choose now to visit? Now to remind me how wonderful you were and we were and it all was? And it’s all gone. And I am crying. Don’t you know how horrible the driving is here? But I can’t tell you to leave me alone. I can’t push you away, but I soon find myself focusing on the road and then you are gone. You are gone and I’m alone again, in my car, driving to the hill, to the place you loved, the place you died. What am I doing? Fuck – why are you not here? I mean, you were just here, but it wasn’t real. It was a thought. It was a memory. It was a hope and a dream and a wish and a slice of insanity. I remember your hands. I can picture them, you, everything. I can picture it entirely, but it kills me. It kills me to remember. I hate that, Dave. I hate that it hurts so much to remember you. I mean, I smile. I love that I knew you. I love that I loved you. I love that you loved me. I love that we had love. But it kills me that it will never be anything else. It kills me to know that I will not always think about you. It kills me to know that I’m learning to not think about you. And I can’t, babe. I just can’t. It kills me. But I can see you smiling at me. I can see your eyes light up and it seems like a million years ago that I knew you. I remember you driving my car. I remember you holding my hand down the road. It’s all so long ago. But I’m driving and this isn’t the first time you pressed your nose against my cheek. It’s not enough though, Dave. It’s not real. I don’t think it’s real. But it feels real sometimes. But it’s not enough. And thinking that just kills me. Come back, Dave. I don’t care if it’s not real. Come back.
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