He lives.

When insomnia hits me and my thoughts start drifting, he lives.
When I hear a song that he loved, he lives.
When I follow his words of encouragement, he lives.

In the rustic, scrawly letters, he still exists.
In the bundles of my hidden memory, he still exists.
In the crevices of his favourite restaurant, he still exists.

He lives through me.
He lives as a part of me.
He lives because he gave me a piece of him.
He lives because I gave him a portion of me.

His hatred is stone cold.
His eyes, ice.
His glare, piercing.
His hurt, evident.

And still, he lives…

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s