A letter to the missing piece.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017, it has been 33 years. Especially in the last few, the sun, the moon and the star whisper about you, comparing the scraps of memories for just one, one more vision of you.
During these long years, the sun and the star have grown strong and warm and light-giving – and you would’ve been very proud and doubtlessly similar.
The moon is a something different: doomed to ever-changing crescents of reminiscence. Whenever that phase comes, it’s once more all about you … Worse with passing years and abysmal insights.
The lines of the hole you left have gradually turned to fire under the lesser light and the perennial darkness of the moon.
Last year and this year and who knows how long still, your absence is more evident in my psyche than ever.
You see, I’ve come to realise that you had been my sky and I had thought that you knew everything.
But that’s exactly the sort of shit believed by 6-year-olds, which is why they’re not supposed to be abandoned.
Of course, I don’t blame you for no one ever blames the accidentally dead and really, it wasn’t your fault … and even if it had been, blame still wouldn’t make any sense. I’m getting too old for this, but I still love you.