Mea Vita was the name he called me. 

He said it was the only name he could use to describe his feelings for me. 

He wasn’t a vocal man, did not believe in compliments, and never expressed emotion verbally.

He was troubled, but he was mine. 

I would often find him watching the skyline, observing each miniscule detail. 

His eyes would narrow observing the tiny people crowded below him, 

his fingers nurturing a lit cigarette, his face red from the breeze

He liked to say he smoked on occasion, or because of stress, 

but I believe he smoked to cope with his emotions. 

(He hated to talk about his smoking.) 

He barely slept, using his hours to work, his emotions blocking his ability to sleep. 

I wish he could have talked to me.

I wish he would have let me understand. 

But he never let me into that beautiful mind of his.

In fact, he never let anyone in. 

I wish I could have told him he was Mea Vita too.