There's a place in my chest for you; the meat around my ribs aches hollow at your loss. The season's keep on weeping and I cannot fathom this next week without you / this next month / year / forever without you. When you die can you haunt me softly? Like the blurry end of a photograph? Haunt me gently, like a watercolor bleed, like the shift form Spring to Summer and Summer to dying in the heat / wrap your frozen fingers around my hands / arms / neck and they'll fit like a glove. We slot against each other perfectly.
I was made for you.
Don't be a stranger, 'kay?