What could have been a Saturday to forget. A day to be alive but not one for the books. But then the call and the clouds and the hovering above and the stepping over in an attempt to make you reappear. I couldn’t find you among your own things, the few things you called home. Were you standing there next to me all along?

Someone said you were haunting them, but I knew you were just confused. Where had the time gone, the softness of the night, the tomorrow-morning bullshit you were promised? When yours was stolen, mine was too, as if the crook knew of only two addresses and the only road between them. She rushed from you to me in a way that only a mother could.

But you’d taken off your shoes for the last time and walked through God only knows what to get the peace you had been seeking since our youth. When I saw you there, I knew we’d have to journey now without our shadows and our secrets. I’d seek light in our slumber and also my words, yours lasting uncomfortably long and also forever. It was never what you said, but what you didn’t, that I couldn’t hear between the lines.

And I can’t stop picturing those inserts, buried and eager. How you slurred that story in detail and I wondered if thirty dollars would save your life, or end it. I should have set those aside, seeing as they’d walked with you awhile. But when I sensed the weightlessness they bared, I left them in anger and disbelief. You had vanished into thin air, and they were proof that physics can slap faces and break hearts. I guess science is soul and soul is science, after all. But still, those inserts.

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