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…