Dear Penrose,

On the days I miss you I go to my closet and bury my face in the clothes that still smell of you - like rain and lavendar and spearmint gum. I close my eyes and breathe in your scent, imagining you. I see you with your red floppy hat and big sunglasses, your freckled face tilted up as you beam at the sky. I see you absentmindedly picking the buds off the flowers in your hand. I see your arm looped around a boy, I see you in an indigo coat, I see your lime green flip-flops and your dirty toes. I see you crying often now: the broken bits of you a little clearer, a little sharper than before. I dig my heels into the beige carpet, weave my fingers through the line of clothes (rain and lavendar and spearmint gum), as if I will push through to the other side and see you there. I miss vanillalotionfloppyhat yellowpencilssmudgedeyeshadow. I miss it especially because fingersrunningthroughyour hairyourlipsgrazingmine never happened. Sometimes I get confused what was real and I have to come back to the clothes (rain and lavendar and spearmint gum) and remember again about the floppy hat, the coat, the flip flops, the flowers, the dirty toes, and your arm around the boy. I smell rain and lavendar and spearmint gum and I let the knife pierce my chest and make me bleed, leaving only the bits of me I didn't give to you.