it was like an earthquake.
the memory of him
rattles in me like a teacup
scratching at the surface of
chipped porcelain.
it seems like he was here just yesterday.
quiet hands cupped
on fidgety kneecaps
i spilt my tea
into his lap.
it looks so easy to disapear.
one day he was here
tracing my fingers with his fingers
taking photographs of flowers
and then he was gone.
it is so hard to feel him now.
a face in the crowd looks like yours
and for a moment i feel light
perhaps it was dream
and maybe you're alive.