I see him everywhere I look.
I see him in the roads that I take, in the buildings that I visits.
I see him in the empty seat.
I see him in the doors that I lock.
I see him in the slippers that were left behind.
I see him in the way that he fixed the bed for me.
I see him in the clothes that he hangs when he irons my clothes.
I see him in the chocolates that he bought on a whim.
I see him in the Advil that he no longer needs.
I see him in every corner of the house where he used to lay down, sit down, wash the dishes.
I see him in the neighbourhood that he loves.
I see him in my phone setting because he used to beg to have an internet connection when we’re out and about.
I see him in the blue sky, because I used to tell him, “hey, look at the clouds. Take a picture of it. It looks so surreal.”
I see him in the stupid way people drive their car, because I usually cussed and he would hold my hands and say, “hey, I know they’re stupid, but we’re here together. It’s going to be fine.”
I see him every time I close the door, because usually he’s there with his arms stretched open, welcoming me in a hug as if to say, “hey, we’re here, we’re safe, the day is over, and there’ll be better days tomorrow for us.”