The days you're gone I think about gravity, about tectonic plates, about fog so thick you can't see your own hands even when you're holding them right in front of your eyes. I think about you, not just unable but also unwilling to consume me whole. I think about my mother, cigarette smoke and lonely days, cuddles with children too big to still be in bed with her. I think about deserted islands, car crashes and how sometimes life crashes down around you like the remnants of a 747. I think about echoes, about shaking hands and trembling voices and I think about her, singing daughter's still until the ocean swallowed her whole.