She always had much more to say than he did.

It wasn’t because he was quiet or dull or unintelligent.  It was because he was unable to communicate his feelings in a way that sounded like dry leaves under footsteps instead of nails on a chalkboard.  When he wrote something he always immediately moved to the eraser bit or backspace key afraid of what it might sound like or how dumb it might make him sound.  And he wasn’t particularly bright, especially not in the way she was.  He could write applications which could write better than he.

And again he was lost.  Floating in a sea of words, unable to grab onto a capital D and float in it’s bubble to safety.

He always left his window open as well.  It didn’t let in the winter or the feeling of her.  It only let in the noisy outside city and a brisk, hot, wet reminder that it was only him in this bed.  He wished that he had a quilt here.  A big, fluffy, sewn together quilt which would make him as warm on the inside as he was on the outside.  Again the fan behind him blew the little styrofoam bowl which he had eaten from earlier around in the smaller bowl which he had eaten from before that.

The light finally came on, right as he was getting ready to go to sleep.  As he curled up in his bed and tried to think sleep thoughts his eyes were suddenly very wet.

Running was something he had to do.  Being alone was something he must know.  Punishment was something he deserved.

He thought of her often.  He didn’t deserve that either.

Again he came to the end of what he was saying and still had said nothing.  I love you.  I miss you.  I’m looking everywhere and I’m still at a loss.