I lit you a candle. I cleaned out the fridge. I bathed the dogs. I started parting my hair in the middle. I took the management position at the office. I began taking walks to cover more ground. I opened my mind to new music but when I heard a familiar song that reminded me of you it took precedence. I donated money to the NRDC. I learned how to build a fire.
I fashioned sentences that had the words “come” and “back” in them, with other words sprinkled in between and around so that it wasn’t obvious, and said the sentences out loud to whomever I came in contact with, but emphasized the “come” and “back” parts to make sure, if you were nearby, you’d hear them.
Eventually I cut the bullshit and started saying the words “come” and “back” to whomever I passed or interacted with realizing there was no time to waste.
I learned how to say it in ten different languages so that I could utter it in public without people thinking I was crazy, and maybe just eccentric, and exotic, not heartbroken, not brokenhearted.
I limped to the ocean, laid down in the sand, and shaped my body into the letters. When I needed help, say with the M or the A, I asked strangers to join me or used nearby sticks or rocks or seaweed to help flesh the message out.
One night the power went out in the house. I was fairly certain it was you answering. The lights flickered off and on. It was a good thing I’d learned Morris Code. Now I know you’re everywhere. Every time I blink we are sharing messages.