I forget that feeling sometimes. You know, the one I swore I'd never forget after you left me. Maybe there's a reason for it and I just don't want myself to know yet. I have been writing letters to you for years that I know you'll never read. Someone once told me that it was a form of therapy. One that doesn't cost by the hour but makes you feel just as horrible an exhausted. I thought I needed change, but all it did was distract me from the reality that you're still gone and I still miss you every single hour of every single day. The smiles are real, so please don't think I've become fake. It's just one of those illusions. Smoke and mirrors and such. I miss you like back porch summers. The smell of smoke and the taste of cigarettes that I couldn't stand but I kissed you anyway because the moment was calling for it. I look back and wonder how I became so reckless. Maybe there was a reason for it, but I'd be lying if I said I knew what it was. It was a Saturday the last time I kissed your face and hugged you like I didn't want to let go. I can't believe that day has had an anniversary already.