“Let the floodgates open,” I said.

“Let it roll,” you replied.

The timestamp read 5:05 a.m.

“I hope we are forever friends,” I declared, in that too familiar, too fast, too far, too much-way I seem to do all the things I do. Then and there a clock was set. And the future didn’t bother to telegram ahead.

Seven days came and went. An entire universe sparked and snuffed in one week’s time.

For a while, I kept the list of after-you things I wanted to tell you alongside the list of before-you things I thought I’d have time to say. I knew it was a list against all odds, but I thought maybe you’d be diverted on your way to somewhere else one day. Maybe we’d wind up in the same space at the same time turning icy wings and dashboard glitches into better things. Maybe, if we could talk fast enough, we’d forget all about the pain of plastic chairs, overpriced cheeseburgers and certain dates in June.

So here we are, one year and a tomorrow later. Here I am. And there you are. And I’m not sure where that really leaves either of us, but two pinpoints on a map.

It has been awhile, but I still choose constellations and bedtime “starries” over the nightly news. I hitchhike through history on the comet tails of flying foxes and the backs of stellar swans. I can go anywhere, but no matter where I go or how I get there, I can never seem find my way back to right the wrongs with you.

Sunrise? Midnight? I’ve seen them. 364 times since we last spoke, to be exact. But still not a moment Before.

I’ve line danced in cowboy boots, moved (and climbed) mountains and eaten an eight-dollar hot dog. I went from point A to B and back to A again. I’ve stayed up too late on too many Tuesdays and spent my fair share of Fridays in. I’ve been scared and fearless, happy and sad, hopeful and hopeless. And I’ve missed your friendship from 6th to 16th Street and all the way back again.

I wake in the the night, sometimes, at 3:33 or 5:05 a.m. You’re there, but not there. Gone, but not gone. I fumble for the light, unnerved by the pinprick tingles of a phantom friend, searching for reason in a space where there is none.

When everyone else is smiling a the screen, I’ve got an eye on the door. When everyone else is holding back, I’m saying too much. When everyone is moving on, I’m standing still in terminal A in search of a familiar face amongst a sea of terrible chairs, overpriced cheeseburgers and people I’ll never know.

I don’t know what this letter is. But here it is. And here we are.

One year, a tomorrow and another letter later.