Mosaic of feelings and memories

 Senior year taught us how to disappear without vanishing.

A stolen morning—

We skipped school

because we could,

because we needed to.

cold Minneapolis air biting our hands,

weed smoke unraveling behind us

clinging to our coats,

as we walked downtown

like the city belonged to no one else.

We ate pizza from a place

without a sign worth remembering,

grease-stained paper plates,

grease on our hands,

laughing too loud, at nothing, at everything

not caring who heard.

The museum waited for us

the way it always did—

quiet, patient,

walls that knew our names. 

Pieces of art that recognized us.

We sat side by side

in front of that one piece

the one that never asked questions,

just let us stare

until time softened.

Just breathing.

Just existing with you. 

Hours passed

talking about love—

how it bleeds into friendship,

how friendship teaches love

to stay.

how it’s not separate from friendship,

how it sneaks in, and arrives unnoticed 

how it stays

if you’re lucky.

We lost track of time

the way you only can

when everything feels safe.

Somehow, miraculously,

we made it back

just in time for the bus.

Two seats together,

shared headphones,

music filling the spaces

saying all the things

we didn’t have words for.

Things and feelings we didn’t need to explain.

Now I carry that day

in fragments—

a sidewalk, a slice, a canvas,

your shoulder next to mine.

I hold them like glass

and set them carefully together

into a mosaic of feeling.

It’s how I survive the loss.

How I stay sane

in a world that kept going

without you.

Now you’re gone

and I live inside the pieces.

I go back to all our favorite places 

I trace the sidewalks we knew,

winter air biting my ears,

boots scraping ice

where your laughter used to land.

The museum waits the same,

its quiet hum filling the spaces between my steps,

a painting greeting me

as if it remembers.

The place with no sign

that still knows our order.

I eat both of our slices, 

listening to our songs. 

I walk the same routes,

breathe the same pauses,

sit where we sat,

as if repetition could keep a pulse.

I do not call your name.

I do not ask for you.

But by standing there,

following the echoes of us,

I find you—

tucked in the corners,

folded into the sounds,

pressed into the cold beneath my fingers.

I do it faithfully, religiously 

like prayer without an altar,

like if I return enough times

you’ll keep meeting me there.

A sidewalk.

A slice of pizza.

A painting.

Your shoulder next to mine.

I keep the memories sharp

so I don’t forget.

I keep them close

so I don’t fall apart.

Every piece still fits.

Every piece still glows

And somehow,

so do you.

This world keeps moving

like you were never here.

But you were.

You are.

And this mosaic

is how I survive

learning how to breathe

without you.