distance (parts thirty and thirty-one)

You and me.

      There are no pictures.
      There is no mention.
      There is no record.
      There is no physical evidence.

Your friends do not know me.
Your family never met me.
      There are no songs, sound bytes, or stories.

But everyone knows her.
      Mementos of your time with her grace the social media walls,
          and the linings of her brain.
      When you heard a certain song,
          you thought of her.
      You thought she might enjoy
          this thing you saw.

And she had every right to be there.
      She still does.

How long will it take for grieving to numb these sharp tics just under thick-and-thin first layer of skin?

I miss you sometimes.






              Still.
      It pains me in the side to admit it.

I dance to waltzes alone
      and always wonder "what ifs" when you
          d
              a
                  n
                     c
              e
      across my own recollections.

You creep softly in,
      heels gently
sink
  ing
into the floorboards.

You are nothing but a whisper of air
      that pushes my darkening blinds too far away from the window,
                                      enough to let the night light in;

you always wake me.

-Dana Winter