He says he misses me always.
That his hands shake when he holds his forks and every sentence of the literature he never used to read reminds him of the way I close my eyes when I laugh. That the sultry rhythms of Sunday morning snuggle music leave him in an insatiable lusting loneliness.
He says he misses me sometimes.
That he thinks of me when he has a few extra minutes after breakfast but can’t quite remember the shape of the snow angels that my body makes. That he found one of my hairbands beneath the sofa and he didn’t want to throw it away, but he keeps a clean house. That he has done three loads of laundry since I fell south out of his life and my smell has been stripped from every t-shirt I’ve ever stolen and trashed amongst ripped clothes and dryer lint.
He doesn’t say much.
But I know that he will always move slowly in the mornings and I hope that he still thinks of me every time he smells coffee, but remembers that I take it saturated with cream and smoothed down with pink packets of fake sugar. With arms like compasses I still sleep facing north, but I tell myself I’m too old for snow angels anymore.