December 23, 2016

I wouldn't tell anyone that I miss you.
I feel bad if I think about it, if I let myself remember.

I miss you in the emptiness of that spot right in front of me
where you used to sit on Christmas Eve.
I miss your laughter and the way 
you used to brush my hair on my cheeck.
I miss you on a Sunday
when your voice is not heard
on the other side of a silent phone.
I miss you on the balcony
when you used to spot me coming 
and waved at me.
The scent of your clothes 
is the only thing I can still count on:
they're all there, in my mom's wardrobe,
still new, still smelling like you.

I miss you on my birthday 
when you brought me flowers every year;
you missed nine of those.
The same flowers
I'm bringing you today, on your birthday,
the ones I never brought you.
I'm arranging them real nice
on the cold ground, that is now your home.
Then I let myself cry a bit
and say a little preayer,
hoping that it's nice
wherever you are.
That there are tons of butterflies
flying around you
like the ones I used to draw
and you sticked on the walls of your kitchen.

I hope I'm making you proud
and I hope you still remember me
because I sure as hell remember you.

I still feel you at times,
you know?
When the smell of flowers is strong.
When with the corner of my eye 
I peak in the dark
I swear I can still see you
watching over me,
over mum, over dad.

I feel you so much that you give me troubles;
so much that it's too late.
Please stay, as much as you want.

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