Wednesday, February 18th, 2015
I'll be thinking of him and his nacre ghost, the scar on his thumb that has lingered since middle school, his footsteps on the hardwood floors, the night he said 'hello,' his frown while he rested into sleep and his smile when he let it show. I'll be thinking of him all the time, just as I have been. But I have nothing else to say. I miss him, and that's all it boils down to anymore. In summers to come his smell will blow by subtly on a July breeze, tugging the hair in my nostrils, and I'll think of him. That's how these things go.
Thank you for reading.