se me subió el muerto

Sometimes, more often than I'd care to admit, while in bed unable to sleep, I will imagine she is there beside me, her back turned to me, and I will begin to imagine the events of the day we had shared, or the things we were to do tomorrow, and these will always be small events, like going to the grocery store or visiting her brother who lives in the city, and after a time it stops feeling like something that I imagined, but as something which actually happened, and some memory as random as a stone on the beach will cross my mind and stick with me, and I would turn it over and over in my head, considering it from different angles, hoping the skin of the memory would turn translucent so that I could see the organs and bones beneath the skin, the inner workings and secret structure by which it took this form, this form that now infatuated me, and it will seem there is one piece of missing information, and if I had that information it would all make sense, and while I felt certain in that moment she loved me I wanted her to feel it like the cold of riverwater on her body, feel it like the charge of a first blushing crush, and though she did not know she had this piece of information, and only able to see it as a fragment could not know it would be the solution to my memory, the point of access to this immediacy, this knowledge, and so I will turn over in my bed to touch her, to see if she is still awake, and it's only at this point that I remember she is gone.