Lost

A part of me is missing. It's a large part. It's somewhere. I know what it is but not where it has gone. Sometimes I look for it, rummage through dusty spaces, open and close drawers, rifle through cabinets. This is my own self, my own flesh and blood. I miss it. It was, it used to be, me. It was my soul, gone silent now, screaming for help, echoing from every corner, everywhere and nowhere. What I am without you? How can I possibly explain myself if no one tells me what to say? You are the heat of the day, the exact heat of the day, just so. You are that street nearby where the smells of the spice islands brew in the evening and overcome everything that made the day. I see your eyes behind the curtain, I see you move between the trees. I remember that touching you was like touching my fingers to a mirror. There was never more than just that much between us, a paper-thin partition of glass. And when I moved my fingers, you moved yours. We thought about things exactly the same way.