I think about your hands -
or what they'd look like, still, in a painting -
Do you still talk to me in your head?

We don't talk now,
our once tattered line has crumbled into silence.
And I miss how I could have missed you,
and I long to have longed for you -
I dream of all the daydreams
I could have wasted on your eyes.

All of this -
and now you are just silence
at the end
of a thought.