I will always miss you.

But, seven years, and I was soaked through and you were turned to ash, so what were we supposed to do? Make soap?

It was funny. and we both laughed, “No.”

Doesn’t matter. You are now a character, a characteristic, a mood in all of my stories, and I will never let your ghost go. Whether you know it or not.

Seven years and I will henceforth carry you like a napsack, a messenger bag, a rolled up waterproof panier wherever I go.
How can I not?

Though it’s a shadow that lets me know you won’t know it. That autumn brought death of a kind I guess I was waiting for, but didn’t want. Death of a kind I always get. Death of a kind I never get. A kind I’ve been running from for years, seven plus itself four times and then some.

I love you anyway, water. I can’t change that. I don’t want to. Maybe, seven plus itself a few more times and I’ll forget how bad it feels on this side of it.

Maybe not.


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