Dear Nazareth
The peonies came today.
Buckeye Belle. That deep, unapologetic mahogany-red, the color of blood left too long on skin, the color of every violent thing you’ve ever done wrapped in something beautiful.
I stood at the door holding them until my arms shook. Ian finally took them from me. I just… couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at those dark red flowers like they were the last thing you’d ever give me.
They’re on the windowsill now. Every time I look up, it feels like a knife sliding between my ribs all over again.
Six days.
I still wake up reaching for you. My hand finds cold sheets, and it hits me like the first time every single morning. I turn to tell you something stupid and the room is empty.
Every time I walk into the bedroom, I expect to see you on the bed, perched against the headboard, watching me like you always do. Like, even though you know me bone-deep, you're still searching.
Still learning…me.
I miss you so much it makes me feel sick.
I miss your laugh—that rare, quiet one you only let out for me.
I miss your hands sliding under my shirt like you needed to touch skin to believe I was real.
I miss the way you’d pull me into your chest at night and hold me like you were scared I’d disappear.
I miss the way you whispered my name when you were inside me like it was the only word you still believed in.
I miss all of it, and it’s tearing me apart.
I’m not angry. I wish I could be. Anger would be easier than this constant ache that lives in my chest and wakes up when I do. It doesn’t get smaller. It doesn’t get easier. It just stays exactly this big.
Right now, all I have is Ian and tequila and the muffins you made. They’re stale now, and Ian thinks they should go. I disagree. I’m attached to the idea of them turning into fossils or weapons. Something useful and hard, like all the things I am supposed to be now.
Sometimes I catch Ian watching me the way he’d watch a bird that crashed into the sliding door—equal parts curiosity and dread, waiting to see if I’ll shake off death and fly again or just shudder myself still.
I try to get ahead of him, make jokes about resurrection and breadcrumbs and start a running tally: how long will the muffins survive post-you? But mostly I just sit at the counter and rearrange them, daring Ian to toss them when I’m asleep.
He doesn’t.
He’s kind to me. Caring. Attentive. And he’s here. Thank God he’s here.
Wish it was you.
I love you.
I’m so tired and I still love you and I’m lost without you.
Please come back to me.
Just come back.
I’m still here waiting. Still yours.
Still breaking in the exact shape of you.