I won’t come quickly. I’ll come slowly and patiently,
slipping into your mind unexpectedly, carrying
all our memories with us, weaving them around your heart.
You’ll feel something nagging, something pulling
and you’ll be reminded of all the ways you loved me, love me still.
You’ll remember every place we traveled, how the sand felt
scratchy and warm between your toes, or the sun, like a blanket
over your shoulders. You’ll remember the softness of my cheek
against yours, the taste of my kisses, the silence in the morning
when I’d still be asleep and you’d run your fingers through my hair.
In the quiet corner of your mind, that’s where you’ll find me.
You won’t think of me often, but suddenly I will return to you,
make your head spin with longing. Because I never left.
And so you will fall, again, into that feeling—of letting go,
losing yourself in another person—but this time, it will feel like home.