Sweetness

I listen to violin music. I miss you. I imagine myself missing you, dramatically, waving a hankerchief into the wind, atop a mountain. The tears that run down my face are big, and dramatic, and wild. I am wild with missing you.

I can't even breathe.

I listen to a rock song. I shake my hair. I ruffle my hair myself and it's not the same.

I imagine candles and ceiling tiles, stuck fast in the place where I feel empty.

All the sweetness in and out and within the world, I remember in a single moment. I squeeze those molecules of sweetness in, using only my memory. There was a look we exchanged which said it all. I wanted to stay, to say it again, and again, and again. Over and over and over we went, over the same ground, slipping in our sock shoeless feet, laughing as we went, crashing into walls, jumping up at them, through them, across them. To hell with boundaries, we said, life is short and we are boundary-less, we move beyond that, and if you aren't touching all four walls of a room simultanously how can you be sure, I mean really sure, that they are all actually there?

I listen to a love song. It says little about love.

I soar away, elsewhere.

I count down the days until you return. I imagine the smell of your neck. I put my hands flat on a wall, and my ear, and I listen for a sign of the past, residing in the insulation.

There is none. Nothing in the wall, anyway.

When you return I will be wearing a blue dress. I will gather flowers. The sky will last forever.