The Little Things That Make Me Miss You

My dearest friend,

Of course the big moments are there,

the memorable pains,

4am, howling into my pillow and holding my stomach,

trying not to be sick

because I'm crying so hard.

Or when I have those thoughts and I feel so blue,

and realise I can't just reach out to you,

not just now,

but ever again,

and I feel so fucking alone.

Or when I have exciting news,

and you're still the first person that I want to tell,

and I pick up my phone without thinking,

but of course

your number is gone.

Because seeing your name was breaking my heart ,

so I had to take you away from everywhere that you lived,

and put you safely,

in your own, little, box.

But the little things,

the minor heartbreaks,

the fractal fractures spiralling out like a Mandelbrot set of infinite damage,

are what kill me every day.

And what will never go away.

The smell of coffee in the morning,

a pillow creased face.

The yeasty steam that rises off a cooking toastie,

and the brittleness of vegan cheese.

I heard the Skyrim soundtrack the other day,

and my stomach clenched so hard that I couldn't eat again

until night had passed

and the day was new.

I haven't had red wine in the morning since you left.

Except that one time when I did,

and I spent the day just looking at pictures of you

and sobbing.

Every time I look out of my bedroom window

I am reminded of how much you would have loved this view,

because of course,

you loved trees too.

The Proclaimers will now always be linked with you,

500 miles,

To You,

beyond and so much further.

I'd walk a million miles just to

see you once more.

I can't play horror games anymore.

I tried the other day and panicked,

and went to hand the controls to you to run us out but,

you weren't there to take them.

And I haven't watched a sunset since you died.

I won't even go in the half of my home where I could see one out of the window,

because I'm just too frightened to look.

Eyes that sparkle and leap with a smile,

or the cunning lift of lips that follow an insult

that when translated,

actually means,

I love you.

The sight of a thick head of hair,

brown and curled like an errant hobbit,

or a thick old jumper swaddling arms

that hold me tight

like you once did.

Or a kiss on the cheek,

planted three times over,

accompanying those encircling arms,

your way of saying everything will be OK and

You. Are. Here.

But you aren't here anymore.

And those little things are all I have left,

painful memories which I now collect,

stored in the files

where you still exist.

Because the little things that make me miss you the most,

the little things that hurt the worst,

those are the things

That I can't let go.

Your friend forever,

In Memory