I miss his word choice.

I remember you draping rose petals over my shoulders one night
when I complained of being chilly. Our feet hung off the ledges of
roofs as if our souls were too big for the buildings we climbed,
and your fingers shyly found mine interlocked between your calluses.
You grew up a working man. I can tell from the creases
on your forehead that I trace so gently with kisses,
and your hands are worn down and tired in the same way
that I can tell how your boots loved the Earth by the dirt on them.
There are libraries in your cerebral cortex I explore at night;
dancing through your synapses as if your mellifluous diction
could somehow sing my poor insomniac soul to sleep,
but nowadays, all your aura does is haunt me like a ghost
filtering through the slats of my blinds like blue moonlight.