Conversations With The Past

I love your wisdom. Your style. Your dirty look. The sweetest of smiles. Even how you look when cooking up a storm in the smallest of cups. Your love of a good book. Your raging heart. Your lingering love. The way you moved. The sentences you never finished. The ones you never started. Your final words of another day before you slip into sleep. The way you move. The way you groove. The things you try so desperately to hide. The secrets you hold so deep inside. The little things that make you. Your cheeky ways. Your crazy days. The curious moments when you’d look away. Your silence. Your rage. The storm breaking. The sexy grin that lights up your face when it’s time to come home. Your freedom. Your denial. Your independence. Your carefree sense of style. Your rock chic clothes. The times when you made me magnificent. The hippy inside. The world washing over you. Your happy hum. Your tantalising turn of phrase. Your consciousness. The way you always had another page to turn. Your sweet homecoming smell, lingered when you left. The moments when you remembered something you wanted to forget. The times when I knew you loved me. The laughter lines meandering across your frown. Those days when we walked around town just for the hell of it, nothing to do, your beautiful hair held in place just in case. All the ways you inhabited your own space. The times when it wasn’t easy being with you. The times when it was. And yes, even the way you danced. I even love missing you. Now that you’re gone.