I can feel the space you will take up and it is so empty. It is gasping, grasping, gaping emptiness. 

 

I am drowning in it — and I’ve never been a good swimmer anyway, but this is a blue death, a cold one. No rush to keep living. No struggle against gravity, hydrogen bonds, and sucking suffocation. Just cruel Death and Her forever companion Silence. 

 

You are my patroclus, my daphne, my adonis. Always leaving me, and yet I don’t know you. I’ve not met you (or I haven’t met the you I fall in love with). I haven’t counted your freckles or found all the ways our palms fit together. 

 

Haven’t. 

And yet I miss you like Adam misses his ribs. Like Pollux missed Castor. Like a soul misses its body after death. This intangible lack that has no cause and no cure, and yet hurts all the more for it.

 

I think we were lovers in another life. I can feel the edges of my soul that used to be indistinguishable from yours. And I can feel the spaces and the places where yours used to sit against mine. They are cold now—hardened and sharp with the lack. 

 

Find me soon. I am less than without you, and I ache for the tender comfort of your presence.