Eight years ago, I got off a train, and my heart skipped because you stood there, on the platform, waiting. You could never look more beautiful than that moment. Earlier, tonight, I was thinking about that; how that is our anniversary, that tale of my arriving into your arms and I began to doubt myself. Not that it happened but that it was the right memory, the right point in time. Of course it was, because you would never count that earlier night—with drinks in the Traf, a man pretending to play the piano, when I Want To Know What Love Is played instead of Magic Bus—that night you always claimed as not a date. How could I doubt it?

It is that which cuts me, that loss of our personal mythology. That shared storybook of life that no one else can ever understand. The little things said and done that are meaningless to others, can never be explained. I worry that I am the only one to keep those tales alive. You were always better at remembering. I worry I let you down.

There are sunflowers in the corner, in a place you never knew, shared with someone else. There are sunflowers in the corner, for a picture you once sent me. A tiny piece of lore which I hope you’ll understand; a way to try and say I still, will always, miss you and love you pixie.