sixteen march 2009
five : forty-two p.m.

it kills me that i'll never know how rough your hands are. what your hair smells like. if you dance. how you act around your nephew. if you have trouble sleeping, and what you think about when you do. how messy your handwriting is. what your passenger seat feels like. what you feel like, in any sense.

but i do know the sound of your singing voice. and i do know that motion you do to shake off the cold. and i can hold on to the daydream where you grab my hand wordlessly and we run away on foot, winding up on some grassy hillside by the water.

but then what?