A postcard of 'wish you were here' my head is a re run of sitcom moments and spirally writing. I remember the way his hands touched me, but not how it felt. As the days get colder, my nights are his mornings. In a balance he wakes up when I fall asleep, stealing my sun from me as I breathe in midnight and witching hours.Moments are not constant things. I should have always guessed I wasn't where he belonged. Fleeting like the way he kissed me, he is gone.