I evoke a huge part of what I can still remember after such long and penetrating space of time drained in between. I easily meander when I’m not in me nor step in this very ground, I laugh to the leaves that shake early in the morning still poor and cloudy. Not a sound to be heard, just the music I listen to, tracks routinely played on repeat cause they’re part of me and you, an us that ceased to happen. At half volume, I rejoice in the repression of both these unnatural melodies and the ones which sound strange to me, nature’s chimes.
I try to figure life out, that’s why I aim getting lost while admiring what rises as repetitive as months, years pass by. I see you at times through these eyes which still think they know you. Are they blind? Am I cracked to picture you there, somewhere, draw you in midair like a feeble vaporization that is yet bound to emerge on the saddest of days? It’s still you, your blonde hair and long legs, your stiff elegant torso. I touch you while perceiving you as it, notoriously gone.
Yes, I miss you, every day, in the morning and dawned afternoon, once the sun gives up and the dark caresses the newly grown marbled moon. Here I stand smelling your absence, and I live. And if this vacancy implies this thought-out well-being by me found for I can’t touch you, then maybe I’m good as I am, me alone and the shadows of who I used to be at your side.