Waking up, I reach for his hand.
Or maybe the warm spot
When he rolled over to stand
To make coffee.
But like grabbing sand,
My hand comes back empty.
I look at the ceiling,
Or his picture nearby
And let out a sigh.
(Often, I cry).
This journey is hard.
Despite what they say,
It doesn’t get better
With each passing day.
My heart zigzags wildly as it tries to heal.
Even good memories hurt like hell.
The presence of his absence
More and more real
As time goes by.