Nine weeks; 63 days of missing you. Your clothes are still in the closet and in the dresser drawers. The last pair of pants you wore are on the bed post where you hung them. I can't seem to move your sneakers out of the way.

We stopped eating dinner at the table because I can't bear to see your empty seat or have anyone sit there. Still can't bring myself to make a cup of coffee because that was our thing. Spanish coffee and sitting on the front porch every morning talking about our dreams and what we wanted to accomplish that day.

I can't remember what your voice sounds like - that's really bothering me because it was your voice that I fell for first before I ever laid eyes on you. Now I can't remember.

I do remember how we'd watch t.v. at night and I'd get up and walk passed you and we'd have to touch. Whether a simple brush of my hand on your arm or you pulling me down on your lap for a kiss. I remember that.

You loved my cooking and I would research recipes and new ways to impress your palette. Food isn't the same anymore and there is no joy in cooking.

There isn't much joy in anything right now. I smile and feel guilty. I laugh and feel sad. I dare to dream of something more in my life and I am racked with sobs. Someone told me that the dead have no place here with the living. That's the thing though - I feel like I died.