There's no purpose to the stories I tell, there's no reason, no set values, and they don't even rhyme. There's no goal achieved by me telling you the way I feel, just an attempt to escape the crows that perch themselves on top of my organs, instead of fluttering around inside. Maybe if I tell you the way I miss your closeness, the way I miss feeling you next to me and in front of me, maybe it wall all go away, and next time it will be easier. The next time I miss you with all of my heart, and it just aches for you to re-prove your existence, it won't hurt so much. I wish I had a story to tell you, and a reason to make you stay, but I don't. S