I'm writing you a letter of all the things I should have said these past 3 years. I'm stringing all the letters into one, pages and pages that your hands can crawl across, trails of sentences that your fingers can walk through. I will try to hand you the memories but there's only so much I can cram in between the lines, there's only so much I can show you. I left them on your front porch, wrapped up in manila envelopes. It rained that afternoon and the black ink splotched. Your name ran down the steps and left a puddle on the Welcome Home mat.