I am forlorn.
I miss you like you have been taken away, and I am forlorn. I have no right to feel this way.
Though you are still here, I miss you. I miss memories.
I miss something. Something inside of me craves the past; and the present. Craves us. But I cannot grip onto it. I don't know how to. I just know it's present somewhere.
I've grown fond of it, and I'm beginning to realising that it is hard to imagine life without it.

It's a tugging somewhere, constant tugging. Though I am happy and content with it, I am forlorn nevertheless. And I live with a hard lump resting half way down my oesophagus. The constant holding back of these strange tears. These from no where.

And yet with this blood, this holy wine, this bitter but sweet,
I have become happy, I am content. 
I am tranquil.