How when you counted, you always started with zero,
never one, even going backwards.
Because you said that even in that tiny place
there could be something there.
How your room had no windows
but we always woke up at sunrise.
How you always got dressed without looking outside
and never got it right.
How you always took pictures of things
and then right after a picture of yourself
to not only remember what you saw
but also capture how it made you feel and
how you only ever shared those.
Double chin, bright grin, always.
How you left shoe prints dancing on your kitchen table
and wine glass stains on the hardwood floor.
How your coffee was always cold and you always burned your tongue on pizza.
The way you moved in your sleep
and the way you stood still at the busiest streets of the city.
How you took cough syrup for every pack of cigarettes.
Suppressing one thing and surprising with another, always.
And how you left.
And how I miss you, always, always, always.