Six months. That’s how long how it’s been since this all ended. Six months since I felt his skin on mine or wrapped my hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close to me and smelled that all familiar scent that signaled home.

I’m ashamed to admit that he still crowds my thoughts, but its the truth. Even here, on vacation, he haunts me like the ghosts that visit the cobbled streets I walked down tonight. The beaches remind of his distaste for the white, sand that he finds too sticky and hard to detach from. And when I go shopping, I absentmindedly think of him and the things he would have liked me to get for him.

I can’t escape him even at night, no, that’s the worst of it. He climbs into my dreams and leaves me to wake in a painful sweat, with an ache that I can’t stop making my brain replay. Whether dream or nightmare, it always ends the same; me wishing he was there to hush me and hold me close, comforting the ghosts of my memories away. Now he’s become one of them and I can’t seem to find a cure for it.

It’s better than it was six months ago and I keep hoping the poor memory skills I have will kick in and I’ll no longer have to remember his touch, laugh or the happy way he made me feel. I don’t hold any memories from any of the summer camps I went to as a child so this should be easy enough….right?

Time. I just need more time. Six more months and I won’t be picturing the way his hand held mine as we drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Just some more time.