I miss you when we sat as royalty on top of the stone walls that have taken a life time to build, when you thought the bruises on my arms were beautiful orchid petals. But you asked a question to which I still know no answer. ‘How many orchids do you need to make a garden?’
I miss you when you counted how many times the bones of our house rattled in the wind while I read pages I can’t remember.
I miss you when we walked the streets to color the souls of strangers. Ivory. Cyan. Copper. When I asked, ‘What color am I?’ You gave me the only satisfying reply there is: ‘Never color the soul of the people you know.’
I miss you when we sat with our legs crossed in the rain, when you yelled over the cracking thunder, ‘they always run from what is good’ about the people hiding from the storm.
I miss you when you traced the truth about silence in my wrists, when you taught me how to say nothing without being afraid.
I miss you when spring was the season we wrote for the nameless dead in the cemetery, when you asked with genuine fear for a fountain to refill your exhausting veins, ‘There’s no need for eloquence. They just can’t become poisonous serpents.’
I miss you when you curled beneath a blanket and coughed away the dust I’ve left to accumulate in the room. ‘I’m living in the stardust’ was my unspoken apology. ‘No, beautiful, you’re living among the rotting corpses of stars.’
I miss you when you reminded me not to bob for the apple in the cavern of his throat, when you taught me to wander away from the sound of weeping centaurs and find the faeries working their magic on the pages of my life. ‘They’re never in the clockmaker’s shop, silly girl.’
I miss you when you were all the good I had in my life.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.