It has been one year and five months. Tonight I realised I can remember the feel of your kisses. I'm glad of that. (Those kisses that I'll never have again ... except in memory.) And tomorrow is the date of your birthday. No, in fact it is today, already; I'm up so late.
Now it makes sense that tonight I pulled out that chapbook of poems I wrote over the three months immediately following your death, and finished getting it into shape for submitting.
It is so hard to believe so much time has gone past, although I can feel and see the ways I've changed and adjusted. But part of me is forever with you in your last days, and indeed in all the days we had together. Surely it was only yesterday?