I know you're not gone.

A lump rises in the back of my throat,

the desperation is a tower surrounded by a bridge-less moat.

Sometimes it feels you are a memory trapped in the past,

and then others a soul which time itself will not outlast.

But as I stand at the edge of this pier,

waves crashing violently, threateningly near,

I hear your voice not as a sound,

I feel your presence as a song of memories echoing between the heavens and the ground.