You were never with me. Not all of you. In your absence I added pieces: jokes from a friend, a voice from late-night interviews, a laugh from someone else’s mouth. I grafted our fronds of fondness into forests in the way only a lonely heart is able. Mulching with memory and tilling over time I nurtured the brief hours of us into full bloom, resounding bright with the tenderness in which you held me, perfumed with playfulness. I wanted to know you better than this. I memorized our dancing, public and unnecessary when a parked car played Tom Petty. Calm and quiet along with Kevin Morby. Sensuous and volatile our naked bodies in the noisy forests, on the raw sea’s rocky shores. Our sweet fervent lovemaking holding for me prayer, an understanding never black or white, of ceaseless changing, temporary passion, weak love. I created high contrast to soothe the aches of your departure. Every time. Long gone to me now you’ve disappeared again. Desperate, your sister contacts me once more, hopeful still that I could know anything of your whereabouts. I never did, not even when I had been with you. In my heart you are a collage of perfect moments and imperfect reasoning: here you live with me in joyful love. In my waking life even the bleak reality of you beats the prospects, and so I allow myself the dream of you, not you, but you. Stay missing.