It touched me today—

The sunlight.

Soft, golden, bold in its return.

I stood quite still,

As though the warmth might vanish if I breathed too loudly.

It reminded me—

Not of summer,

But of her.

Not her beauty, for that would be too simple.

But the way her hair loosens at the nape by evening,

How she presses her lips together when thinking,

Then forgets to unpress them for minutes after.

She would tuck wildflowers into pockets—never vases.

Said they preferred their freedom.

She never sat like a lady should—

She folded herself into chairs like she belonged to them.

And her voice—

Not lilting, not silken,

But honest.

Even her silences had something to say.

The sun kissed my skin today.

But it did not reach me.

Not like she did.

Not like she still does,

In every place she is no longer.