I cling to her like my own life is in the balance.
I search for anything she may have held dear.
I look for pictures of any kind that hold her image, her smile, her eyes, her lips, her hair.
I build an altar of these images.
I seek a scent that is hers.
I find places where she once sat, and I sit.
I listen for her voice, her laugh.
I wait for her touch, a kiss, her arms around me.
What I find are my tears, my pain, my sorrow, my loneliness.