Sort of. Didn't really document much, because I didn't do much. But there was a sunset. And there were cookies. And blankets.
I think that's what Sundays are made of.
You visit the store daily. You remind me of all the people I have ever loved, and your ipod is always in your hand and you openly laugh at tabloids. Your laughter is clear and true and it is familiar. Today, I smiled and I told you to have a good day and I really meant it this time. And then you left. Your hat was crooked and your coat was unbuttoned and you greeted the freshly fallen snow with a perplexed grin. My heart sank and you didn't even know and you will never know and you are my illusion and my secret and I hope that your wife knows exactly how dear you are.