Come Home.

I saw you the other night. Or at least I thought I did.

I called out for you too. Or at least I thought I did.

So I reached out, thinking, hoping that I could touch you. Make you turn around. See your face. Hear your voice.

Once again be still in the silence as the echoes of your words linger in my mind. Hauntingly drowning out the white noise of life. Feeling of familiar calm, the effect you so often had fell upon me as the tips of my fingers stretched out to touch your shoulder.

What greeted me was undeniably a familiarity. A moist pillow I laid my head on and darkness before my eyes.

From time to time, I find myself thinking of you. Dreaming of you. It’s not that I want to. It just happens. Because everything somehow in some way seem to remind me of you; a flash of an image, the back of someone’s head, dialogue in a tv show, a voice, a book, a word.

And then I wonder if you realize how much I miss you.

And if you miss me the way I miss you.

So much for closure.

“Maybe I’m just dreaming out loud.”
One Republic, Come Home.

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