Dear Florence,
I was looking at my room (the messy one that you tried to prevent), and I saw a gift that you gave to me. It was so simple yet so meaningful. It was just a rose incased in resin in a glass box. The rose seems meaningless at first, but you know how much I love it.
You were always one for gift giving. You were the complete opposites of me, but hey, opposites attract. You're good at it; I'm bad at it. You gave the rose to me for my twenty-second birthday? I can't believe it has been that long since...
All I remember is that I was planning to celebrate it alone, but then you came and lit up the room. You were the light at the end of the tunnel, a beacon of hope. We both celebrated, cheered, and it was probably the best birthday I've ever had. It won't ever be the same anymore though.
Gifts mean a lot. Instead of something tangible, you gave me a material thing. I think I know why you gave me that rose now. Roses are pretty, but they have thorns. Were you secretly telling me to not judge a book by its cover? I know I'm bad an analyzing because I failed english class for a reason.
I like that you gave me gifts. Now that you're gone, this is the only real thing I have of you. The words you said to me are all but whispers in the wind. It's in the past. I can still look at your rose and think about what we were. Even though a hug from a mushroom pillow isn't the same, it still smells of you.
You are scattered all throughout my life. I can't look at a single thing anymore and not be reminded of you. It's always the small things in life that creep up behind you and decide to pour nostalgia all over you.
We had a good run. It was nice, but now I have to try to move on. I love you so much and I always will be.
Your Lover,
George