December 31, 2013

Dear Lana,

I stopped by your house yesterday because I had to make sure it was true. All your stuff was still there. Your converse are still by the door and your Kane sweater is still hanging on the chair where it was when I came over like the ass I was. I even went into the kitchen. Your fridge is still loaded with that Vitamin Water you love and there's a whole drawer filled with bologna- it has to be yours- you're the only one who eats it like that. Your mug's still on the countertop, too. It was half-filled with coffee. Since when did you drink coffee? The coffee wasn't that cold, that means it wasn't too old right? You've been here recently, right? I washed the mug out for you, I know how much you hated dirty dishes left out you neat freak. I went into your room, Lana. And I found a box on your bed and it said my name on it. I was so scared to open it. I can't feel anything. Will a million sorry's bring you back? Because I'll keep saying it until I'm blue in the face. "I don't want to open this box," I kept telling myself, over and over.

There's so many.
There has to be at least a hundred.
Why didn't you send me any of these letters?
I wish you sent me these.
I'm so sorry
Come back please

Patrick