It meant nothing; it meant nothing at all. The way you kissed me so perfectly on the lips, on the navel, on the tips of my fingers; they meant nothing at all. I didn’t desire to resist sleeping until I got a goodnight kiss nor did I want to kiss you as you slept softly next to me, so very close. Whenever you held my hand when you saw me jump during a horror film or when you held it each mile that we drove together; that meant nothing at all. I drive so many miles with both hands on the wheel now, most of the time to destinations where I will be alone. How could it have ever meant anything if I find myself so alone now? The letters we wrote each other were full of lies, each and every last word of them; those letters mean nothing now. Every thing I can remember about you, every little last detail, and every moment we spent together, it all means nothing now. The only thing left is the memory of you leaving; that is all the only thing that has ever meant a damned thing. Everything is nothing now.