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Our Museum

I can hear the laughter, coming somewhere deep down in your throat. You always had this odd chuckle that you seemed like you weren’t quite sure about. It sounded to me like the fluttering of pages from a book, the sound of rainfall against the roof. But maybe this is just me being silly.

Still sometimes I think of it and remember everything about you; from the crinkle on the side of your lips, to the steady rise and fall of your chest whenever you breathed.

Your long fingers dancing over mine so delicately. My heart pulses so vividly in my chest whenever I get like this.

There are pictures of you, of us, in my mind that I walk through like a museum. A life so colorful and so beautiful, but maybe I never quite lived. I look at all of the memories carefully. You always seemed to have stars in your eyes, always longing for something so far away.

In this museum of us that I keep in my head I take my time. I get to know every inch of every scene as though it was the only way I could live. There’s a door there, covered by a thick, velvet, dusty curtain that I’m not sure I could ever touch again. In there is a black and white film with no sound that never stops. Our last little while. The last few times my eyes ever grazed the sight of you.

Your laughter echo’s in my ears and I step away from our pictures. I wipe my face, leave my daily flowers, and listen to the crunch of the grass as I leave.

I swear I can feel you right there, next to me. Your same long fingers touching my hand as though you meant to grasp it. My own fingers clench lightly and I can’t help but look back at the mound of dirt.

“I miss you.”

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