I don’t remember much now—everything’s always huddled together in a hypnotic deluge of the senses, befuddled and distorted of so many faces I have forgotten the names to, so many days I have forgotten the years to, so many things I have forgotten the time to. But even through the ensnaring of my crippled mind, sometimes, I find that I can see your face perfectly—soft and lit up with the warmth of the flickering flames by the winter’s hearth, with your unruly brown hair spilling out onto your eyes, locks of chocolate hiding those ocean sapphires of yours, those priceless jewels that when I look into them, I can see myself staring out of every perfectly carved facet, catching the light from the sun and throwing sparks of the stars into such an endless, endless sea.
And sometimes, on those summer evenings where the heat is unbearably stifling and yet I still feel cold, and I wrap that fraying lavender quilt around me, I can feel your voice strum out and twine into hollow of my throat, the bow of my lips, the hills of my eyelids, the bridge of my wrists, the canyon of my chest, and it is such a perfect sound that I find I do not need the blanket anymore, because you and your melodious harmony, the porcelain magic I find in your sweetly broken words, I find that it is the sheet that covers me from head to toe, shrouds me completely from the world outside…
But I am old now, and you are gone, and sometimes when I look up at the stars in the sky, I ask myself why the sparrow steals the martin’s nest, why I can never find the end of the rainbow, why we follow the passage of the sun and not the moon, why my heart seems to be bleeding in the place where you used to be, why I cannot know exactly where you are now, and I start to cry and I hold my head in my hands and think that if you were still here, you would know the answers to all of those questions, the answers to the pittance of my soul.