When I close my eyes,

the millions of glowing white spots

on the back of my eyelids

become her freckles.

 

Every wrinkle in my bed sheets is

the lines at the corners of her eyes

when she smiles.

 

Each laugh is hers,

bright and loud and warm.

Silk is the smoothness of her hair.

 

A brush of a hand from a stranger is

the soft feel of her lips on my cheek,

and the giggle that comes with it.

 

Her eyes are my cup of coffee

in the morning—

deep, brown, and enticing.

 

Holding my blanket around me in bed is

holding her, feeling the rise

and fall

of her chest

and her breath on my cheek,

reminding me that she’s there,

even when she’s not.

 

I open my sock drawer and it’s hers, and

she’s digging through it to look for

something to wear,

even though I’d prefer to stay

in bed all day.

 

I feel the gentle touch of her hand in

anyone attempting to get my attention.

I hear her loud voice and her quiet one

all in one from the sounds of the tv.

I see her in the dress still hanging

on my closet door

from our last dance.

I feel her in the unspoken words of

when she falls asleep

in conversation.

 

Even in the forced dinner prayer

I feel her hand in mine,

though it’s only my own

two folded hands.

 

I see her in the people around me,

in every compliment and kind action.

I need her in joy and sadness,

in struggle and victory,

in morning and night. 

She's everything I need.