You can't go back to how things were. How you thought they were. All you really have is...now.

Don't give up on me now. I'm sorry. I guess that's an odd thing to say. Because isn't that what I'm doing? Giving up?

He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.

What the hell happened to Pluto?!

A week went by and nothing. But eventually, as they always will, the rumors reached me. And everyone knows you can't disprove a rumor.

If you're angry, you don't have to write a poem dealing with the cause of your anger. But it needs to be an angry poem. So go ahead... write one. I know you're at least a little bit angry with me. And when you're done with your poem, decipher it as if you'd just found it printed in a textbook and know absolutely nothing about its author. The results can be amazing...and scary. But it's always cheaper than a therapist.