He misses you on battlefields, in shadows, in fading ink, on cold ice splashed with the blood from his scars. In the rings of trees. In the wreckage of an existence, slowly crumbling into oblivion. In bubbling water. In bee stings and dragonfly wings, in stars. In the depths of lonely woods, he wanders to pass the time of his increasingly meaningless day-to-day. Yet still, you watch him. You slid back through his life, and he has known you since before he knew you.
Recently, I also started to believe in some sort of afterlife. In another universe, we paddle through the atmosphere like seals, where the air itself is sustenance, and all one has to do is open one's mouth and inhale to remain alive. Maybe there we're together again. Or maybe you are even closer still. Maybe you are the flower that started to bloom in my living room, even though I thought it died long ago. Maybe you are that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. Maybe you're still here, guiding me and keeping me safe from the utter disappointment of the world. I'm not giving up. Not yet.
