Somehow I keep thinking of you in places you've never been.
I'll be walking through a grocery store and catch myself wondering what it would be like to be there with you.
It's stupid how little I know about you.
I don't know what your hands feel like. I don't know what you sound like ordering at a restaurant. I don't know if I'm taller than you. I've never seen your handwriting.
And I hate that I don't know.
Because there are people who have stood next to you in line at a coffee shop who know things about you that I don't.
There's no place I avoid because it reminds me of you. No shirt of yours buried in the back of my drawer. Nothing I can hold and say, there you were.
You've never been here.
And still, somehow, I keep finding you everywhere.
I've made up so much of you. Sometimes I wonder how much of what I miss is actually you, and how much is everything I wanted us to be.
That there's a whole version of my life where I know the answers.
And I'll never know if I imagined it right.