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Losing you looks like watching TV without glasses because it doesn’t matter what’s on.
It looks like six therapy sessions in one week because maybe just one more hour will help me come up for air.
It looks like cleaning the toilet seat at 2 a.m. so I have something to hug and capture my tears.
It looks like driving through a drive-through without stopping because I am unable to speak into the microphone.
This is what losing you looks like.
It looks like crawling into bed and holding the one thing I have of yours—a rock that says “love” on it.
It looks like replaying your voice message one more time just so I can count your number of inhales (seven) and words (102).
It looks like whispering, “I love you” to my pillow that never whispers back.
It looks like closing my eyes and looking down toward 6 p.m. just to capture a glimpse of the same yellow glow that once radiated from your smile and warmed my soul.
Missing you looked like this last year.
It looked this way this today, and it will look the same tomorrow.
It doesn’t matter what’s on TV.
I can’t see it anyway.
I think I’ll just keep cleaning the toilet seat and telling my pillow I love it.
If this doesn’t work, maybe I’ll go to therapy one more time.
Yes, I’ll go to therapy.
Seven has always been my lucky number.
I missed you today.
I really missed you.
Maybe we will never see each other again.
I’m not sure we ever will.
I hope we at least meet once.
If not here, maybe in heaven.