I forget him sometimes. Like how I forget to use articles in the English language. Words drop from my mouth. It makes no difference to me. What if it is just a chair? Or the chair his grandfather left him. Yet this wood is not him. The lack of word tells you that language can't substitute for life.
He said: "I don't quite belong here," while we laid bare. Yet another way to define why he clothed, to explain why I endure, to outline why I still gaze. A human being is connection. A human being is me, a me, the me in relation to you. A lifetime spent trying to touch you, to leave a mark.
Which is nothing.