and what is now missing

The inventory of himself took centuries, perhaps days.

His arms were still there, languid. Drifting from him.

His legs were somewhere too, waiting like breaths of smoke around him.

His mind must still function, or perhaps he merely dreamed his thoughts moved.

Whatever was missing was outside of him. He had to find it.

Whatever it was that was missing would be here today. It would linger in the sun, savoring its warmth. This was something he had always known, had kept with him even after he had forgotten what it was like to breathe.

The missing had a shape. It. Her. Someone. His brow furrowed on this point. And was not distracted by the thought that he still had a brow.