In the weeks after your death, your face, the sound of your voice disappeared from my memory, then came back, projected onto people on the street, turning up everywhere, as if you had swung into a darkness where not even thoughts could reach, and then echoed back, amplified. The dark side of the moon perhaps, I remember you telling me how the moon dragged all living things towards it and we had to fight against its pull. Too late now to balance out the pull it had on you, for you to give your side of this conversation, bring me down to earth, tell me strange facts I hadn't heard before. Gone, like your pain and all the things we could have done together, your smile, your restless intelligence, your touch. I could have phoned you once or wrote, but now can't reach to you, can't lose you from my sight.