I was the one to say goodbye. It was me that walked away. But I’ve never really been able to let you go. Even now, all these years later, I’m still holding on.
I still sleep in your tee-shirt - the Malcolm X one. Faded to black. That picture of you in the bath in Brighton. Your hoodie. Big Moo.
There’s a little wooden treasure chest where I keep one of your dreads, threaded through my engagement ring.
I know you still hate me. Eight years apparently is not enough for that hurt to fade. I just wish there was a way for me to tell you, without making it worse, that I love you still. I always will.