I want to paint you pictures with my words. I want the colors to fit together like puzzle pieces, so that only you and I can see them. On the white canvas of my looseleaf paper, I want to use the watercolors of my plastic pen to show you the wonders of the world.

I want to make my words dance across the page for you, flitting in and out, twirling in a dance no one else knows. Make this notebook my stage, the pen the dancer. I want graceful, beautiful words.

I want these words to sing, a song meant only for you and me. Words and notes, tangled together in a golden web, strung star to star, like lullabies, or stories without endings.

But my words will never sing and dance for you; you will never see my paintings, the ones just for you.

Now that you’re gone, now that breath has left you, my words cannot sing and dance for you. For anyone.

I don’t know if they ever will again.