What's it been? Eight years? One would think that you'd enjoy your rest, but you keep hovering around, some days more present than others. I'll see you in an image on a can of rice milk. I'll hear a laugh that sounds like yours. I'll pick up some object and be transported to memories both good and bad. You always said you'd haunt me and maybe you have. Or maybe my wounds are more raw some days and more healed on others and you are the just memories, flashes of synapses. Whatever you are, you've been very present recently and I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I love you. And I miss you.