He Is Gone

She misses him. The smell of his flannel, the wax in his hair. She misses how he felt. Her hands sliding down his chest, down his stomach...when he kissed her ever so lightly. So perfectly. For lifetimes.

She misses him. They used to joke that they fix together like two imperfect puzzle pieces. Seamlessly. And his face. She misses his fair eyelashes. The light from such unexpected beauty--he was her glory--baptized her every time she saw him.

She misses him. His whiskers never scratched her. Bristles soft like her soul. Fragile. She got high off the heartache she sustained from the weight of his divinity. She misses the enormity of his existence. Passion lit: uncontrollable. Overwhelming.

She misses him. His hands--not big, but the strongest she had ever encountered. His strength could save the world, or save her--so she thought. She misses his shelter.

She misses him. The way he muffled his joy beneath a stern expression. So serious. And secretly hopeful. His volcanic belief in her when she read him her poetry brought tears to her eyes. And the tears burned scars in her flesh. She misses the ecstasy of their connection.

She misses him. The pain reminds her.

And that is how this ends.