When I am the only one left, I think of what we have done, and of where you might be now. Long arms and nimble fingers; a feathered tattoo peeking from your blue sleeve (it wasn’t as bad as it sounds). I could never quite make out what it was, and I will never quite know you.

Your brown hair, once so still, is now probably blowing in the wind. I imagine it still again, absorbing the heat of the sun; the blue sky from my window, white sheets, and the feel of your kisses on my bruises. You have not yet turned to ash, and I will anchor you down in my arms under the weight of my imagination. I will preserve this, because I have nothing else.

Submitted by emmakempsell.

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