Don't think I don't think about her when I lift the lid to this laptop.
I do. I go to her page every other day now. The temptation, settling, but I still wait for her to post. Something. Anything: What will it look like, Meg? Show us. "It will look like this."
We leave here suspended. We go in the middle of our words. Frozen voices - 404s. How apparent a life unfinished, a backlit heartbeat quieted, steps backward in time, archived, begging just one more word.
We are made complete here by one another.
I still miss her.