When your best friend is too far away, a part of yourself stays with them.
I am missing limbs.

I am missing soft, blonde hair and dainty fingers and curved hips.
I find myself unable to balance when her inner ear stretches too far from mine, and I can no longer hear her thoughts no matter how far I tilt my head, lean toward the window. She is not here, and I don't know what she's thinking, can't hear her breathing heavily on nights that I still can't fall asleep in her house, television flickering on my side of the bed until the sound stops and the light shines blue.
On the nights I can't fall asleep in my own bed away from home, I watch her favourite show and try to wonder which parts she likes best,
Which parts remind her of us.

I wake up on Wednesday mornings, too grown up for eighteen, too little to be alone, too scared to be responsible.
I make my coffee and drink it alone, I wonder who is making hers because I know how she likes it and they won't make it right, they won't make it perfect.
And she deserves perfect.
I wonder how many people made her coffee wrong during those eight months.
I hope she's sleeping in.

My best friend is a turtle dove, with a stationary heart and pretty words to get me through lonely days in my temporary home.
Her voice is always soft on the phone, it is softer in person but still through crackling speaker it is more calming than any replacement I have tried to find for her here.
She flutters from place to local place with warm smile and sparkling eyes reminding people of their worth and importance. She doesn't know her own.

And she tells me not to worry. I am always worried.
Because I am not a dove, I am a black swan who has never found a permanent residence, not even in a person.
I fly from feeling to feeling looking for acceptance as unconditional as the way that someone who knows every horrible thing you've ever done can still love you like you're perfect.
Nomadic birds, as I've researched, fly as far as they must to find whatever it is they're looking for, no need for a home, just a crash pad on each coast for days when they are tired of wandering.

I wish I knew what I was looking for, so I could find it close to her.

But I sit on the bed, trying to read a map and I realize that I can only see the left half because her side of my bed is empty.
She has never slept here.
I twist my sheet in knots thinking, there is someone on my side of her bed and her side of mine has been empty for six months since I left.

No one ever tells you that when you leave half of yourself with someone, you don't just lose your balance and your vision.
She carries around my entire right side,
And now I can't read the expression on anyone's face, cold dark stares are all I can see.
My heart can't send my brain the words to any new songs so I stare at my piano and wonder why it isn't making any music.
The entire world is black and white
until I answer the phone,
and her voice swims into my ear like liquid gold.
It drips from the receiver, smoothing over my shoulder, covering the right side of my body until I am whole again, if only artificially, temporarily.
And she says,
"I am always with you."