I've walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire.
I don't really understand what made you leave. I don't know the compelling event that pulled you so far from the reality standing right next to you, the flesh and blood that kept you warm at night and bandaged you when you burned, wrapped you in cool, smooth gossamer sweetness, loved you both in spite of your faults and because of them. When I channel, I feel the words wrap around only you, as if you're my nameless muse coming to me only in the darkest hours.

I have these pictures laid out, fifteen years of you (but really only seven, really, because you left me way back then). Nine pictures, seven years, the math doesn't add up. Nine pictures don't quite measure the love exchanged over coffees, burgers, tears, chairs, music.

Visit me in my dreams, Donald James. I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel.