Wednesday, April 25, 2018

I wouldn't tell a soul that I miss you.
I feel bad if I think about it,
if I let myself remember.

I miss you
in the emptiness of that spot right across from me
where you used to sit on Christmas Eve.
I miss your laughter
and the way you used to brush my hair 
on my cheek.
I miss you on a Sunday
when your voice is just a laud ghost
on the other side of a silent phone.

In the wardrobe,
the smell of your clothes 
is the only thing I can still count on,
it hasn't disappeared
like you did,
leaving a train of your existence
on the Earth,
in this house,
in my heart.

I miss you on my birthday
when you bought me flowers every year,
in July,
with the sun shining on your blond hair.
You missed nine of those.
Almost ten.

These same flowers
I'm bringing you today
on this cold ground that is now
your home.

I still feel you sometimes,
you know?
When the smell of flowers is strong,
when from the corner of my eye
I let myself peak in the dark,
I think I can see you.
Watching over us.
The way you always did.

I feel you so much
that sometimes it gives me trouble,
so much that it's too late.

Please, stay.

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