gone

When I open my eyes, I can still see you—the crease of your smile, the shape of your hips, a forgotten hand collapsed atop your head. Being with you is like staring into the sun. Your silhouette dances on my eyelids for hours after you’ve gone. I have captured you like a candid shot and throughout the night you’re closer than my dreams.

When I open my eyes, I collect each image and paste it to paper to create my own Picasso—I press you to glass and hang you on the far wall in my room so that I can explore each bend and fold—searching for meaning in the assorted leftovers of a quickly fading memory.

You stare at me blankly from your cage and I know that you can’t stay. I hear the cracking of broken glass—like ice cubes in lukewarm water. You tear yourself from the frame and vanish. You’re an exhale on a cold day, fading to quickly, and I can’t remember if I’m still breathing.

I want to see you again.