Mourning More Than Just You

It’s not just you that I’ll miss, and I know that might sound selfish and shallow. I’ll miss the life we talked about and planned, with smiles on our faces, eyes locked in agreement, time standing still. We talked about the house we would turn into a home, argued about the best floor for the laundry room. We talked about the kids, the ones you already have who I planned to treat like my own, and about the ones we would have together, tiny miraculous creations we’d make because we loved each other. We talked about travelling to Ireland, the land of your people, and to Greece, my top destination. We’d go together and I had already envisioned, felt even, your hand on the small of my back, standing on the tip of a mountain together. Your hands. I’ll miss your hands so much.

We had these talks late at night and in the wee hours of the morning, your head on the pillows, mine on your chest, whispering only because it was dark, touching every inch of each other that we could. stroking here and there, caressing, reassuring, promising. I thought we had agreed.

We had these talks over dinner that you cooked. God, I’ll miss your cooking. Sipping wine, happy to be dining together in the little kitchen we called home, talking about forever. After, we’d walk. We covered this town with our tracks and on every street I can still feel your hand in mine and the words you spoke to me, the lies you told me.

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