Missing the long, hand-held walks over North London hills or South London parks, walking until the anxiety relaxed its grip and we could go to our home,
Missing her voice,
Missing her wit and the smile she didn't like,
Missing her eye rolling, her thigh slapping; her kicking legs,
Missing her walk.
Missing her skin.
Missing her hands.
Missing the mole on her right cheek and the occasional straggling eye-brow.
Missing the black fire of her eyes.
Missing my long black-haired sexy wife,
Missing my short red-haired noble wife,
Missing my best friend,
Missing the tears in bare-walled hospital side-rooms where every hope was crushed and all we could do was cling to each other,
Missing holding her,
Missing knowing I wont have to finish a sentence,
Missing her style,
Missing being so very, very proud all the time.
Missed her death.
(today was the two month anniversary of her death)
This isn't a poem by the way. It's just a list. I haven't gone mental.
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