The un-missing (a Maya Hart story)

"I remember."

It's been a year and a half.

We still can't find her.

I saw her once.

She saw me.

She was in the park.

She was smiling.

She had longer hair and a guitar over her shoulder.

She wasn't wearing much makeup.

She saw me as she was running.

Not running away, just running.

She swung her hair around and looked back at me.

She didn't look scared to see me.

She kept running.

She was smiling.

She looked so happy.

I tried to catch her.

I tried to run to her and tell her that it had been 448 days.

And tell her that I still stayed awake some nights.

That I slaved over maps and lists and charts.

That I had a wall of my closet with strings and pictures and things she had drawn and places she loved and foods that made her mouth water.

That I would spend hours staring at it, trying to find her.

Trying to fit together pieces and clues.

And tell her that I missed her calling me Cowboy and stealing books so I would chase her down the hallways.

That I missed our game.

I never told them I saw her.

I remember when I kissed her.

I was walking her home from the library.

She looked so beautiful.

Her eyes reflected the stars and her hair almost glowed in the moonlight.

Gosh, she had the most beautiful hair.

I remember standing on the steps outside the cafe where her mom worked.

I remember the neon lighting and how it turned her flowy black shirt pink and blue and green.

And I remember kissing her.

And I remember how easy it was.

Everything was so easy with her.

She was the kind of person who made standing look like simply lying down down vertically.

I remember how she just fell into our kiss.

Everything was just so easy.

It was so easy for her to disappear.

So easy for me to loose her.

But loving Maya Hart comes in flashbacks.

-s