still missing you

I count the months. 9. Almost.
I still miss you. It hurts less but you're still missing. Can't delete your numbers. Won't delete your messages. Stopped reading your letters.
I call your number. Maybe I can listen to your answering machine. Number not available. The impulse to call your sister. Almost like talking to you. Same voice. Same sudden pauses to take in a breath.
I lie outside, humming along to music. The second chaise is empty. I miss you occupying it. I lie back with the knees up under the plaid. You sit uptight. I miss you leaning on your elbows over your knees when you relax. Listening to music with me. Saying nothing to each other. Just looking in your eyes glimmering in the dark. Reaching out my hand. Holding you. It's so hard to reach out my hand nowadays. So strange to be touched by someone else. But welcome, as of late. I miss saying nothing with you. And understanding everything in fact.
You haven't come in my dreams for two weeks. I love you, said I. I want you, said you. Going through your work. I love your work. I want to show it.
All that's left.
And why. And fuck.
Wandering the streets.
Leaving a red rose in your mailbox.
Singing at your grave.
And a perfume I want to bathe in.
Up thunder mountain. What a view. You flew over the glacier. I tore my knee.
We travelled to the south. You swam away in the cool aegean waters, under the moonshine. I cried.
I took you to the forest. I needed that last one, you know.
Hey, I think I'm in love. You're not there to listen to my rant. Or are you? Hey did I tell you? I'm getting a tattoo. Was so jealous running my fingers down yours.
So you're gone. Nothing left of you now. An empty matchbox.
But I carry you everywhere I go, my heart.