I woke up this morning fuzzier than usual.

It's easier to remember in my sleep but the memories are now tied with hopefulness--your hopefulness. Your jacket was cold on the outside as I hugged you, and I remember your body warm as I slipped my hand in and tried to squeeze. I remember you tried to kiss me goodbye and I moved from it as I sobbed. I didn't want to miss that kiss but still I moved.

The journey alone has been quiet. You text me or email me or my own brain will write your words for me to digest. Ah, don't give up. Just do it. Do it yourself. You will regret everything in 20 years if you do not do it now.

Forget em. Everyone.

I took your advice and ate the things you said I should, and I didn't get sick. And I find myself now standing on this wall built on bones. It's humid here. People are noisy here. The ones who speak English are crude and I am ashamed to be near them. The ones who do not stare at me sometimes only because I am staring at them.

Nothing particularly magical has happened. You told me I deserved better and I would meet someone else. I don't want it though. I never did.

I can't remember if I ever wanted this wall, either. I'm standing upon it and my clothes cling to my body and I am wondering how proud you would be of me. I still crave your opinion.

I'm sad but when you ask me about today, I'll say it was perfect.

And you'll smile.