Before I moved 4 hours away from my childhood home, I used to feel his presence on everything there. On the bed that we used to lay on, whispering to each other about the intensities of our love, on the squeaky couch we watched TV on and tried to start things up on at 3am, on the window he appeared at when I was about to give up all hope in life when he walked from 20 minutes away at midnight to kiss me through - to tell me to stay. In the lounge when he embraced me and vowed that one day we will pose this way for a sculpture of us that will be displayed outside our home. I felt him there still, every time I walked past or sat on or looked at any of these places. I thought that once I left, I would no longer feel the weight of his presence and be moved to tears through pangs of the heart. Now, here I am, far away, and still I feel his presence. It's like I've brought it with me unknowingly. As someone who packs away a hairbrush that has strands intertwined in the bristles. He's here. He's in my heart and my head, in my soul. There is no escaping my love for him.