Forever lost in that special place. Longing to touch, to smell your presence. Always a glimpse, a glimmer of shape but never substantial enough to give any comfort.

Sometimes I hear your feet on wood block approaching. Hearing them, there's brief hope that those steps are solid.

But after she died, you lost your zest for living and your eyes clouded over, opaqueness sealing in those precious memories. Despite this, you sensed and judged moods of lows and elation with humble, subtle and quiet empathy.

Remember the days when you once leapt, running, chasing? But when she left, your zeal faded like an intermittent flicker and I, tending, tried to recapture that energy, until it expired.