Earlier today I suffered. For how little I knew of you and how much I wanted to. I want to know your story. I want to see your life. Even if by voyeuristic curiosity with intentions for nothing more, I want it. To flip through your family photos. Close in on what you were. To know the presence you leave in a room. I want to walk through and feel it. I want to see.

But instead I don’t. And I do ache along with the sounds of my good intentions. That you knew so very well.