The mark of his
presence is
branded
across my existence.

I see him
in the long, thin frames of teenage boys,
in the gentle winter sun,
in the color green.

I hear him
in the heavy ***** of combat boots
     and the near-silent steps of bare feet on stone,
in sharp laughter
     and wry voices,
in the quiet rustle of leaves
     nearly drowned out by the howling wind.

I smell him
in petrichor,
in the bitter-salt tang of clean sweat,
in citrus-scented soap.

I feel him
in the rain that leaves stinging kisses on my cheeks as I run,
in the brutally playful clash of limb on limb,
in the touch of human skin.

I taste him
in the aftertaste of "I love you"
     long after it has left my mouth
in the sharp, metallic flavor of adrenaline,
in mint tea with too much sugar.

I mark
his presence as
it floods
into my consciousness
every sense saturated.
But these
marks of him
do not have
the power to bring him
back.

His ubiquitous absence
is unnoticed by the
winter sun, the
leaves, the
rain,
yet
it makes
a marked difference
to me.

Now
the winter sun is
     blinding,
soft footfalls pound
     at my ears,
laughter is
     a knife.
I flinch away from
     the touch of skin.
I choke
     on saying "I love you" and
the scent of oranges.