Everything has melted already. Summer has come. Winter is over. This hurts more because of it. I miss you.

It was a sunny day that she left, sunny and dusty. I might as well have been standing in the midst of thunder and lightning; it would have made no difference. I watched her drive away from me and at the time all I could feel was a small hole slowly opening deep inside me.

I went to put her not-things in order. I did not hold them to my face, did nothing of the sort. No sentimental sorrow filled me that sunny day. Only knowledge that there would be another here soon, and her hairs and smell and sounds would fade away from her place in my world. I wish I had kept something of her. A section of hair. A blanket, a brush. Something more than a photo.

In the winter thoughts of her were far from my mind. She was never one for the rain or the wind. She hated the elements, was turned to a shivering mass in them. She was a summer girl, because in the summer she would lay out on the ground and soak up the hot air and she would glimmer in the air.

Now it is summer and the coldness has seeped away from this place. Now I remember you. Now I remember, and now I hope to never forget.

I miss her. I miss her sweetness, her softness, her hatred and her fire. I miss her eyelashes and bronze hair and majesty. I miss her love of dirt, and her hate of water flowing over her. I miss everything about her. Do you understand me? I should talk of things you can understand.

Have you lost love? A friend, a lover, the person so close to you they might as well have been your arm, or leg, or heart. I have lost love. She was that silent shadow I could whisper to, a diary that walked, a friend who knew all my secrets. Not only did I lose it, I said no, I cannot have you, leave me, please. This is what hurts the most. That I said no.

Please. This hurts too hard. Come back. I want to find you and bring you back but I know I cannot have you.

In a few months it shall be a year since I said goodbye to her. A year since our last walk along that dusty trail. I miss her. I miss her. Nothing works. Everything is old and boring and monotonous. The music I am listening to is the same music from a hundred years ago. My room is the same. My clothes are the same. My hair is the same. My friends are the same. My family is the same. Everything is the same. Nothing is the same. I miss Rose.

I have no horse. This hasn't hit me too hard. I don't miss horses. I miss Rose. I miss her tangled short mane and watching her from behind the fence as she rolled in the dust. I miss her stupidity, her ears flat back in a scared run. I miss her bucks. I miss the way she pretended like a magpie was the anti-Christ, or the way she couldn't stand with her back to the trail. I miss taking her for walks. She is the only living thing to have ever heard my stories straight from my lips.

Do you understand me? If only I could have her back. I remember being told I could have her for seven hundred dollars. Less than half the price she was sold for. I wish I hadn't said no. I wish I could have her back. Just for a day. One more walk. One more hour standing in the sun, resting against her shoulder, her head bent to the grass. Just once more.

Please.