Every day in the afternoon, she writes a letter to the man she loves.

The ink and her tears flow together as she describes how much he meant to her.

She always uses the past in her letters, for she is unsure how she feels now. Can she still love with her heart and soul both dead and torn to shreds? It's hard to tell.

So she writes. About her days, her thoughts. There's happiness, sadness, love and so much pain in her words. She writes down all those emotions that don't make sense to her anymore.

A part of her wants to scream how much she admires him, how deeply she loves him, how his soul touched hers and how she feels so empty now that he's gone.

But she can't. So she writes, again and again, endlessly.

Maybe someday, a few years away from now, she will give him those letters. Maybe someday, the tornado between them will disappear. And maybe someday, she will learn to understand the words hidden in his silence.

How could your sweatpants retain your scent even though I washed them
Eight times.
P.S. I feel like I've lost you when I take them off.

I still feel your curls between my fingertips from that time I put you to sleep.
P.S. I knew you loved it but I acted surprised when you told me you did.

I told you I was sweating because I forgot to turn my AC on but it was because I felt the spaces between your fingers fill mine.
P.S. I was freezing.

Thank you for letting me rest my head on your shoulder all of those times I was exhausted.
P.S. I was always wide awake.

Thank you for lending me your t-shirt for gym class.
P.S. I had two extras in my locker.

You told me I looked beautiful when I came to school with no make-up on.
P.S. I haven't worn any since.

We fell asleep with our hands miles apart until I felt yours tapping mine
calling
"Hey, come back home."
P.S. Please let me come back home.