Mourning Epiphanies:

It’s difficult missing you in the middle of the night, your pictures in my safe box, our receipts that I secretly kept from the restaurants, the smile retrieved from the wardrobe where I last wore when I was with you, the memoirs like white elephants, the small details I glorify — like the way your eyes gazed into the sky, your stare made the sun itself blush — your phone number at the top of my contacts, the songs I got addicted to, your name on a scratch paper in my wallet’s divider,

lastly, your stubborn heart.

Your heart, beat by beat, speaks, a pulse is heard giving out instructions: set the bar for the stubborn heart.

As I remember the little things, the immaterial, my eyes speak in silence:

I miss you a lot.