I can only talk to you in past tense. Every verb done, every adjective pale, because the moment had passed. It would be me, telling you about my woes, you, laughing and comforting me about it in a voice that my mind fabricated. It pales in comparison to how it really was.
I can only talk about you in past tense. In washed up memories, and tragic markers. How you can mend things like magic. How you can make people comfortable and happy around you. How we laughed about stupid things. And how we cried.
I can only feel about you in past tense. Every happiness, a mockery. Every sadness a nagging emptiness. I remember the times that I was mad at you. I remember how my heart grew numb from all the walls I erected just to protect myself from the inevitable pain of losing you. I remember those times when we were happy.
I can only think about you in past tense. Only made up conversations and what ifs with your ghost. How you suffered, how you fought. How you eventually gave up, because you thought it was for the best. I can only think of those, in a retrospective manner, like watching a video of your own car crash accident.
I can only regret about you in past tense. I would never know if I could’ve done something differently. I would never know if how much is my fault. I would never know the answers to a lot of things I would have asked you if you were still here. I would never know if you were proud of me, or if I was deserving of the love you gave to me.
I would never know if you were okay, in that place where I don’t believe exist. I would never know why you went there so early in the first place.