I think you're everywhere.
When I see babies, grandmothers,
squirrels, trees, peaches, puddles.
In handwriting that is a perfect mix of
script and print. You're there.
When the credits roll. When I'm driving alone.
When a rooster crows. When I miss my flight.
I see you in the eyes of every person I meet.

You're not dead -
(At least I don't think so.)
But I've gotten used to you
in the past tense.

I think of how it always seemed like
you knew a secret
that the rest of the world doesn't know.
The mystery that enshrouded you then
has been multiplied now by your retreat.
Thousands of miles and thousands of days
conspired to create a chasm
that I often attempt to traverse while I'm asleep.

Am I angry? Not really.
I pretend to be because it is easier than being sad.
You knew me better than anyone ever has
and losing you is simply something
I haven't mastered yet.
I understand you had to leave.
Even in your silence, I trust your goodness.

But I still can't shake the sadness
of the world (or me)
maybe not ever knowing
that secret thing that you know.
You're still the voice in my head
and it is one of my sincerest hopes
to burn love letters with you again
in this life or the next.