Do you remember how your heart used to feel? It felt that way for a long, long time, didn’t it?

I know you think about her every night, and you miss her so much sometimes that you’d put yourself in a state where you could be missed, too. Is she over there, in that other place?

Do you remember when she cried so much that her tears were candle wax? Warm little tears that melted down her face and onto yours. And you asked her, “Why are you crying?” even though you already knew the answer. I’m sure she cried a lot, didn’t she? I’m sure she cried those candle wax tears every night, soaking into her pillow to be forgotten the next morning. Night would come around, and she’d do it all over again. She’d cry those tears until her body was aching and red and starved for death. And you’d love her, even when she was like that, wouldn’t you?

I’m sure she visits you in your dreams, and I’ve no doubt she looks beautiful. Does she let the moonlight drip into her hair? I’ll bet her hair falls over your face, but you can’t smell it, and I know you wish you could. Do you remember what it smelled like, when she was still part of our world?

Do you remember when she would write you letters, and call you on the phone? Do you keep those letters, still? Little messages in black ink scrawled across crumpled paper, locked away. I’ll bet you kept them, didn’t you? Do you read them, from time to time? They won’t ever disappear, if you keep them locked away tight.

She would cry those candle wax tears, the moonlight dripping into her hair, and another boy would tell her that she was the shit that she’d always believed she was. You never let her feel that way, did you? You didn’t let her. You might have joked that you were her knight, and she might have been listening, if even just a little bit, as she fell asleep in the seat next to yours, driving under dead stars, whispered music cooing from her still legs, curled up and there where you wanted her to be. You sang to her, even as she slept, I’ll bet. And she sleeps now, doesn’t she?

Do you remember how she made you feel? It hurt sometimes, didn’t it? She was ill-omened, all right. I’m sure that didn’t bother you, though. I’m know that’s why you loved her.

Can you hear it now, the little piano? It’s playing little notes that sound hushed and delicate. The guitar sounds so gentle, too — like plucking the strands of a spiderweb. When will you see her again, old friend? Maybe she’ll come tonight, I don’t know. She might exist only in your head, now, drifting under the moonlight that drips into her hair, gliding past little piano keys that play so softly, so softly — and I know you’re there, too. You’ll put her under the sheets, and promise that you’ll be with her soon, kissing her forehead so softly, so softly. You’ll tell her that you love her, won’t you? She’ll thank you for meeting her there, like you always do, and for protecting her, like you always do. She’ll flutter her eyes and look into the ones above her own. She’ll shut those eyes so softly, and you’ll wipe the little warm tears away, like you always do. “Do you remember when . . . ” you’ll start, but she’s already gone to that other place.