He misses me still, but that's old news. He's missed me for so long now - he can do it in his sleep.
He does it while he eats alone at his desk, while he runs for a train, while the rain is coming down in sheets. While a girl takes off her dress and he reaches for her, his hands hesitate a decimal. He turns off the light, and misses me.
It grows inside his chest, like a bonsai tree - something natural but stunted. Snipped and pruned carefully, but not allowed to grow outside it's box. Not allowed to put down roots.
He hauled it off, across the sea. Across China and the Middle East, he misses me.
Half a world apart, in Amsterdam I walk with my eyes to the ground, all brown and grey. Thinking of the planes and trains that bore him away. This has become second nature for me.
It's midnight in Tokyo, he sits at his desk in the light from the street thinking of trees, canals, red bricks, me and when we sleep, he and I both, it's with ghosts in the sheets.