I awoke this morning feeling heavy, like there was too much gravity pressing down on my heart. So I wrote you another letter. I wanted to tell you everything, explain all that had happened, but there wasn't enough paper in the drawer, and my veins were running out of ink, and I just couldn't tell you any of it. I couldn't show you any of it. I felt your finger tips on my skin, and the feeling stayed with me like a scar. I have such terrible days where I feel as though even the sound of breathing is like sandpaper against my skin, and all the while I've been making excuses why I couldn't eat my blueberry muffin, or get coffee with Emma in town. I feel too much again. Everything I see moves me, even after all of this trying. I wrote, and wrote. I told you how I enjoyed your company, how you kept me warm, how I missed you even when I was with you, how that awful moment came when I could positively feel myself growing to depend on the presence of another human being. Of you. I wish I could send these letters, but they aren't enough anymore. Nothing is enough anymore.