I smell your hair on the pillow,
              now that you’re not there.
I see what you would see
              through the window,
              and I count the birds, the leaves.
I listen to the music
              that you would choose,
              when here to do the choosing.
I ponder as you did —
               reach for this,
               take that.
I taste the wine
               you loved so much.
And I remember two glasses of it —
               the sound of them kissing.
               And with my finger,
               I play with a fallen drop.

Downstairs,
I sit mostly in your chair
               and pretend the warmth was left by you.
I write your name across the crossword,
               and then, I write, “I love you,” above it.

I take the car
              where we would take it:
              the beach,
              out past the bar, our bar,
              the forest of high old trees
              and walk the shadows among them
              where the sun can never come.

Harder this
than mourning for the dead —
              mourning, that is, for the living.
There is no end to this,
              this ending of you.
Harder this, than dealing with the dead.
              For sorrow still lays your head upon my pillow.
              And the birds, I still keep counting them at your window.
Hard this,
              this ending of you.