Cold wind blowing

Sometimes when I think of the many great conversations we could have had, I get wistful. I had so many things to tell you, in a manner that only you would understand. I kept repeating them through my head; I was prepared. You would have loved it. It would have made you laugh (the same way you laughed on that day, but louder). Instead all my stories died a premature death on my lips…

You don’t know it, but I still look for you everywhere, hoping never to see you.

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