I wrote to you, almost every single day. I wrote as though my words would bring me back to you; as though I were about to die of some terminal illness, and the words that I was churning out would be the last ones I’d ever send to you. I wrote as though these desperate metaphors and similes would fill the ever-expanding hole in my life – but how is that possible when you, the love child of lonely nights and summer rain, have become my life – because when I rested beside (...)