Behind the stretch of my lips forming an expression of joy is an image of you doing the same. Isn’t it weird that I’m talking about you this way? I cry a little. Isn’t it weird that you’re not here but you’re here? I smile a little. Isn’t it weird that I can never ever share life with you? I die a little.
In the middle of dancing I would suddenly stop and look for your face in the crowd. I hate it when you make me realize that you’re gone. To tell you honestly, I haven’t really gotten used to it. But I love it all the same for making me feel your presence. And then I’d hate it again because we can never talk about how good the music is.
I’ve stopped the unending whys. The pool of my tears is dry but crying still feels the same. Like my heart is about to break out of my chest. Like my hand would just involuntarily float in the air waiting for physical touch. I feel like running. I feel like flying. I feel like shouting, “where the fuck are you?”