You're gone. I can't find you, not if I track your steps over continents and years.
And yet, the world keeps turning. Spinning. Moving. Busy, rushing to and fro. Mindless, unheeding of the fact that you're gone.
There's a wide-open, gaping space of nothing where you were.
An invisible outline drawn in the air, in the water, in the clouds and the rain and the pavement, shining under streetlamps.
You are an indelible part of me. I'm missing a limb, an eye, a heart beating in and with mine, a soul, sewn with bright silken thread to my own.
The pull of you is gone, and I am left adrift, circling roughly where I did, but missing any form of gravity to keep me straight, sane, functional. I wobble, trying to find equilibrium, fingers grasping for a familiar texture that's not there. Empty air, hollow and uncaring, shreds me. Open space sears my lungs,
the shadow of you. I reach for you and clutch at nothing. I hear your steps and turn, but you're not there.
On every street, every dark corner, I find you. Every beam of moonlight reveals you, watching me quietly, like you always have. Your eyes are kind and loving and reproachful and terrible. You cup my cheek, as you love to do, but I feel nothing in this numbness. No sound. The colours are gone, only moonlight and slick pavement is left, spinning shadows through me.
Cold. Wet. Dark. Silent.
Please.
Come back.
I need you.
John, come back.