I can trace your footsteps now. I can go back to where I left in the book. I could walk the lane I once traveled. But you are gone, and I feel it in the air. It’s that feeling of the flame extinguishing in a dark room, when the soul of a man leaves it to planes beyond our contemplation. Yes, I feel you’ve left. But I am no longer sinking. I am no longer the kid who chased that stranger with the Jay Gatsby smile, I am no longer the kid who’d burn his eyes out reading. I am no longer the kid who’d try to protect the flame from the gusts of winds life blew. What I am now is what you’ve made me. I’m that ash that falls from a burning cigarette. I am that long sigh before you notice that your coffee is almost finished. I am not the smell of rain, but the earthy soil that absorbs. I can no longer love what I loved before. I am what you made me. I am, exhausted.
