Your trace
You're still in me.
What will it take for you to leave?
My thoughts are still tinted with the color of you.
You don't appear in my mind's eye anymore. Your face is gone. Gone are the days your gestures and your energy replayed in my mind over and over again.
You are gone. I made it. I pat myself on the back. It's in the past. I live my life, I don't think of you, I don't suffer, I can't remember the last time I cried.
Yet ...
... when I move, when I plan, when I imagine the world out there, wherever these ephemerial objects are born, wherever these temporary mists arise somewhere in the recesess of my being, they always pass, even if briefly, through the filter of you.
What makes you so special, little man? Why are you like nobody else? Why does it feel like no other man could ever matter? Why you, with your imperfections and frustrations and insecurities, your weaknesses and your needs born of wounds? Why can't I unsee you? Why will I spend the rest of my life acutely aware you exist?