Tonight I danced

I don't know why I'm bothering to write this. You'll never read it, but I feel better already. Almost like I can still talk to you. Maybe I'm crazy. But then again, who could blame me? You weren't suppose to go. Not yet.

It's the first time I've been to your grave since you died. It's been 7 months. Maybe that's not that big of a deal, but I feel like I've abandoned you. So here I am, sitting on the cold, damp grass, writing on this sheet of paper on top of your folder, letting you know what has happened since then. Again, I don't know why I'm bothering with this. Maybe because I feel like you're with me every time I find that warm spot on a summer days, like I'm standing in a sun beam, or a breeze comes by. Corny, I know. But it's true.

They say that there's no such thing as happily ever after. Even if you manage to stay with that person, one of you eventually dies. Sure, I guess I was ready for it, since I thought you were the real thing. And you were are the real thing. So yeah, I guess I vaguely accepted I was going to have to deal with this day at some point. Or that you were going to have deal with it, if it was me. But I wasn't ready yet. Hell, I'm still not. When I wake up in the morning, there's one blissful second when I think I'm going to roll over and see you sleeping on the other side of the bed, or hear you moving around in the apartment.

And then I wake up, for real this time.

I think you'll be happy to know they found the guy.

In an ally, a heroine needle shoved up his arm.

Thankfully they managed to get help. I'm not glad that he's gotten better, by himself, but because he's going away for a long time. I like the idea of him being locked up forever, though it's still not fair that he stole you from me. Maybe I'll go tell him that. Apparently killing an officer of the peace is a major crime. Sorry, that seems cynical; I'd erase it, but I'm writing in pen. And I know you wouldn't want me to be bitter about it. Sad, if only for a little while, yes (at least I hope you wouldn't want me to snap back from your death like a rubber band), but bitter, no.

When I got the news, and officer had found me at the studio. Said he knew you. I'm sorry to say I don't remember his name. I'd been in the middle of dancing, not practicing, just dancing. Doing what the music told me. You always said that was your favorite sight to see; me just listening and moving, without a care in world.

Maybe it was because I hadn't stopped the music, until after he told me you'd been killed. But after that, I just couldn't get into it. Part of me, a very important part, died with you. I don't know if I'll ever get over it. I guess I'm suppose to get over it. That's what everyone else is telling me. But love and grief aren't just emotions you can switch off because you feel like it and they're inconvenient to society.

When I get over you, I get over you, because I'm ready, not because of anyone else.

Dimi misses you. He sits at the door and waits. I tried to explain to him that you wouldn't be coming home. Then again, dogs don't understand English, so that was pointless. He wouldn't eat (neither would I), or sleep (again, I wouldn't either), but now, we're both eating and sleeping on normal schedules.

I suppose it's better now; I don't hurt anymore quiet so much. People don't feel like they can't mention you around me. I can hear your name and not burst into tears. But I couldn't dance.

I don't know why. I didn't like not being able to dance. I could do maneuvers if you asked, but I wasn't into it. But the desire to dance whenever music played (something you're more than familiar with) ... it was gone.

Except for tonight. I went to the studio, tried to dance again. Even played the song that I'd been dancing to when the officer came. I sat there, just listening, and then I had the same feeling that I got when I found that warm spot, that sun beam, that breeze. It was like you were telling me to get off my ass and do what I love. So I got up, let it flow over me, completely fill my conscience mind.

Tonight I danced, and now I'm here, writing to you.

I don't know if I'll ever 'get over you', or what that means. What it will feel like. But I will love you always, and will always think about you. Even if I'm a old spinster, or if I find someone else and start the family with him I'd wanted so badly with you.

I miss you, and I'll keep dancing for you.