I. This is a thing we used to say to each other, and I miss saying it. I also hate feeling it because,yo. I miss your fucking face.

II. This is the hardest weekend of the year for me because right now, at this time every year, I’d be either anticipating your arrival, or you’d have already shown up and we’d be hanging out. I am *gutted* tonight. Gutted. I’m Sinead O’Conner level fucked up over the loss of you tonight.

III. I *will* move past it though. I am doing all the spiritual work I need to do to make sure of that. All the therapeutic work. All the self-inquiry. All the fucking work.

IV. But tonight is not *fine* with me. I am not fine.

V. I miss your face.

VI. I am writing into a void. If you’re smart, you’re not reading this. You’re not reading anything. You have disappeared and nothinged me. But you, Trailer Park, were never all that smart, so I suspect you are reading this. Ya fuckin’ donut.

VII. I poured you up a shot of Fireball. It’s sitting by George who is guarding it for you. I whispered in his ears that I want you happy, over it, well, and thoroughly moved on and George said “You’re lying” so the work is a work in progress. Most of this is true. I want you happy and well. I do not want you over it or moved on. I want you missing my face. I want you full of egrets.

are they stability? My love. I hope they are stability af.

Full of them. I want you to have anniversaries like I have anniversaries. I want you drunk on the garage floor with my name in your mouth. I want there to be things you hear or see that make your guts flip. I want you gutted.

VIII. I do not like what this says about me, but I can live with it because unlike you, I can live with all my parts.

IX. You should come hang out with me and learn to live with all your parts.

X. In my dreams, we are just about to walk up the hill toward the fire. I put on something pretty because you called me a beautiful woman once and I believed you. You take my hand. We have all we need. The buffalo skin we’ll spread out by the fire. The cooler of whatever we’re drinking – Caesar’s and Fireball and maybe some Buttershots. You look at me like maybe I am magick and I am happy and certain and ready for whatever comes next.

XI. I miss your face. <insert a bunch of swearing because I really fucking miss your fucking face>.

XII. Our people are gathering tonight, virtually. We’re doing a burn. Last time we all did a burn in person, I watched you help to manage the burn. Your tall, broad frame at ready to save the fucking world if anything went awry. My triple A, Mine, I thought. You strode back my way and you called me Ivory tower. I laughed at you and called you Trailer Park. Laurie wandered over to tell us we were one of her favourite couples. You took my face in your hands and kissed me soundly. There was applause. I was *yours*, I thought. You were mine. I was yours.

XIII. I was wrong, though, and I wish I’d known sooner, because dude.

XIV. It’s a year on now and I’m still pretty much gutted.

XV. My love, my love. I miss your face. I really fucking miss your face.

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