She stared at the empty screen in front of her and willed her mind to fill it. Her heart had been wringed out of her chest and she lacked the capacity to observe the world anymore. She started writing many times but each line sounded wrong and empty and threatened to go nowhere, so her hand remained on the backspace button, while her head willed the words to come.
All I want to do is write about you. I miss you. Your eyes, your smile, the stupid way you danced.
I miss the way you always knew what I was going to say and talked to me for hours about things that to other people seemed irrelevant and mundane.
When you made me breakfast and lunch and dinner and all the things inbetween. How you forced me to try new things and knew what I liked before me.
Waking up next to you.
Sleeping next to you.
Waking up so tightly entwined together, any limb could belong to anyone.
She stopped typing because she knew that retrospect made everything perfect. That her mind had lost the ability to see wrong or bad. Maybe that was the beauty of love. Being able to squeeze out every bit of good from every bit of bad. Being able to see past actions to the soul of a person to understand their worst actions.
The way you wouldn't let me stay mad at you.
She would write about love.