I haven't been able to write lately because I haven't found any sadness in my life to write about. Bittersweet, I want to say-- but mostly sweet.

Months ago I wrote about you. Long hair and eyes of gray with enough sorrow to shake my soul. I swore you held the world in the palm of your hands and it was the basis around every poem I've ever wrote. I remember the day you said I wouldn't feel a thing-- and you're right. I don't. I remember blowing out the speakers of my car to the sound of your voice over the radio and today I find myself listening to my favorite songs that blare from the backseat since everything else had died along with the memories that were made with you.

I remember wanting to tell you about my tattoo, how it's laced with our memories and all the laughter packed inside. I wanted to ask about yours and if you got the white rose to signify the night I gave you one when you told me you loved me. I remember that rose clearly, how you took a picture of it laying on your dash as you drove through New Buffalo on your way to Chicago.

Today I want to tell you that I've painted over the tattoo with a new meaning and I'm hoping that yours has a different texture to it as well. I'd tell you about how the rest of the roses from that bouqet have wilted along with the bitterness I held them with you.

I'd want to write about the memories we've made and the love I've felt, every single metaphor that I could possibly conjure up, or even how I felt the following months after you left. I'd want to write about them all, but every single week I find myself stumped because I can't even use a single ounce of the sadness you caused me that inspired me to write so frequently about you.

I'm just not sad anymore.

I kept hoping that time will slow down because with every minute that passes by I had to remember was another minute away from the moment I last saw you-- but time doesn't stop. It keeps ticking and ticking and never seems to quit. Time slowly turns and before I knew it it was the next hour, the next day, and now it's been months. Soon it will be a year and hopefully it will be decades.

I thought I loved you, and even if I did, I surely do not now.

You are just another page in the book I have read a thousand times, and as much as I'd pray for a different ending, I know that things don't work that way.

Today I am writing because I am happy.

Happy to be in a better place and happy to have moved on. Like I've said, you were just another page in a book and I am chapters beyond you now.

I know I have said this before in the past, but today I will say it again and will rephrase as well.

This will be the last time I write about you.

I'll see you in the funny papers, my friend. Cheers.