one. Every morning leaves me with a mouthful of sorrow. I tell myself that’s because missing you is like an ache but that’s not all true: I miss you, I do, but more than that I miss myself when I was with you, I miss the girl lost in the wildflowers with her eyes open. Eventually the mornings fade into afternoons spent on the couch sifting through maps and ticket stubs and photos littered across the coffee table, a shrine to all the places we’ve been and never will again, but the weight on my tongue never lifts.
two. Sometimes I spend hours listening to your favorite songs to drown out the sound of the girl in the wildflowers calling my name, I think about how you were always full of dreams and ideas and ink-smudged maps with roads that led on and on until the end of forever, you were always so much, you were always more, and I think I was more when I was with you, too.
three. One year ago I buried two fallen angels beneath the wildflowers in the meadow behind our neighborhood, two children with fragile, brittle bones and decaying wings, the evening light paling our haloes and washing the youth right out of our skin. I was too busy crying to realize one of them was still alive, still worth saving.
four. Today I’m going to dig up the girl in the wildflowers and kiss her dirt-streaked cheeks and hold her hand until it becomes warm again. (I won’t look at your body, but the thought of it will be a ghost in my head anyway, like it always is.) She and I will go traveling to all the places marked on our map that you and I wanted to—I think you would have liked that. We’ll hold hands and run into the horizon until, just for a moment, the light breaks around our edges and we blur into one person again, and it will feel just like coming home.