Everything else is the same

      I miss the way you used to call me 'dear.' The way that you said 'love.' I miss the way you signed your letters 'yours' and 'truly.' I believed them; I believed it all.

      I miss March and April. That feeling that you could be my whole world and I could be yours, too. That feeling of sweet anticipation in having to wait to tell you something. Something that amused me. Something that I loved. Something that made me impossibly sad. There was no one I could share my sadness with quite the way I did with you.

      I miss the way you questioned everything about me; no one ever had before. The way you made me choose my words so carefully; no one else had ever made me want to.

      I miss your startling honestly. But maybe most of all, I miss being able to confess like this.