He's left pieces of himself in the crevices of her life; puzzle pieces with his initials spread thin across countless spaces, and she thinks he's left bits of himself in each place and time and memory she shared, in each story she's told him. And now, after he's gone and flew from her, she runs into little bits and pieces of him from time to time.
Here is a dent in the corner of her phone where he dropped it, here is a drawing in the page of her book. Here is an album they covered with his music playing, here is the jacket he wore, here is the hat he played hide and seek with her. Here is the drawing she showed him, here is what he said. Here is a movie he loved, here is a song he sang, here is his voice echoing alone in her answering machine, here is an ache in her head and here she clenches her empty hand into a fist so she doesn't think about what she doesn't have to hold.
She can't miss him because he's still here, in the cracks of her life and it doesn't matter that she lost his phone number and his email and couldn't see him if she tried because she is always seeing him; she is always seeing him, but when did being with him stop being an option?
(She dreams of comets and blackbirds and mahogany wood with nylon strings and hazel eyes and the way he sounds when he talks, mouth open and breath harsh, rasping in and out of his lungs. She dreams they dance to songs of what could have been, what could be, what almost was, and she dreams they're happy. He is everywhere when she wakes, and she dreams of his residue.)