I look for you everywhere.

It's when I'm in the middle of a room packed with a dozen people, and you're not there, that's when I look for you the most. And you're just not there, and you're not here, and it kills me. That's extremely hyperbolic, yes, I know, but it does. Because feelings, they twitch and they hurt and we just don't know how to explain how badly they do. And we're too afraid to talk about them so we put them in songs or show them off in the colours of a painting. We fabricate them into Literature and wait for someone else to understand what it feels like.

I find myself childishly bickering with the air of a vented restaurant or while walking down the street. That's because your scent uninvitedly tosses itself my way and slaps me in the face. Real fucking hard. It gloats and I sit there and stare at its malevolent pleasure with this incessant voice in my head screaming in jaded exasperation.

Why are you doing this to me?


And sometimes when I'm all by myself, sitting on a table for two, I intently stare at the vacant seat and wonder if I could sketch you. I wonder if it's possible for me to detail your every contour and trace the corners of your lips on nothing, on a canvas of thin air. I'd have them spill out your heaviness for only me to listen to and care about. I'd have you talk. For me to find some kind of kindred spirit in your words, some kind of comfort. And with the meandering strokes of a brush, I'd finish you off with the many colours of your eyes and their different shades and the glint of gold in the upper corner of your right eye, triggered by the rivulets of broad daylight.

And for fading moments I won't have to look for you anywhere.

Because I'd have you.

Just you.

Right there.