On the evening of December 26th.

''It is not what you think. It is how she sunshines my days and steams my cold days. It is her smell in the morning, and her body in the shower. It is the soft of her lower lip and the mess of her hair. How she holds me, how she sees me, how she tastes me. It is the moon of her skin and the notes in her humming. Cause we danced, we drank, we made love. We fucked, we slept and we broke bread. It is the warmth of her touch. Her tears, her falls, her laugh. Her complaints, her moans, her smiles. Cause there is nothing, absolutely nothing like her. Broken perfection, every beat in my heart.''

That's what it said in the piece of paper I found crumpled on one of the benches in the park 20 minutes away from my house. It was the park at which we used to have breakfast once in a while. Sitting from across each other, sharing bites of whatever we fancied that morning cause we never had the same cravings. Except for fucking, savvy? But I did not care cause we always ended up sharing. Anything, everything. We both changed by being simply together. I still remember how his hair felt against my face while we lied down and playfully tussled in the grass after each meal. Lord do I miss it. Why, I mean... For fuck's sake... The paper looks like torn from a bigger piece of it, like discarded. I mean, who can blame it, right? For fuck's sake. Why today of all days did I have to find this? It's been a year, a fucking year, and I cannot think of anything else. His cheeks rubbing against my thighs. His voice rumbling in my body. It would take a message, a simple message, I know it. ''We will find each other,'' was the last sentence I heard him say. There is not much finding if I look for him. I read the piece of paper, over and over. I can't get up and walk away. My hand trembles when I grab the phone. A simple message. I comb my hair to the side so I don't set it on fire when I light a cigarette. Fire. He was fire. I go to my message history. I listen to the last audio he sent before that sour day. The one I never had the courage to which to listen. I call her. ''Hello,'' she says. With the same candor she used every time I went to their place. ''Listen,'' I say say shakily, ''where was it you decided to bury him?''