I miss you. The way my hands sometimes smell like you. The ache in my eyes to find you where you aren’t- in the room with me. In the city with me. State. Country. Plane of existence.

But here comes another tropical storm with your face on it and I feel every muscle in my lower body tensing-
A fight or a fuck, a running start or a roundhouse kick to the jaw, you were something kinetic.
Unfathomable, unstoppable.
But you’re dead. You’ve been dead for the last few lifetimes I’ve shrugged off. I forgot again and found myself at that old event horizon,
Imploding in the vacuum left in your wake, keeping my head above cosmic water to make it to any shore, anywhere, even when it means I’m a rum soaked melancholic worthy only of my own disgust. At least alive.
The shrapnel in my brain vibrates like a tuning fork when I’m close to losing my shit and I’ve been close to losing my shit for going on a hundred years now, singing like struck crystal.
I miss you and I have no right to. I am selfish and I miss you like a limb, like all the potential I pissed away. But you’re dead. I’m here and you’re dead and life doesn’t wait.