Not a night goes by without some remembrance of you working it's way into the forefront of my cognisance. It finds little resistance though. Perhaps I have become accustomed to the pattern so that I bother not to fight it. I'm inclined to think, however, that in comparison to all other thoughts vying to occupy the limited real estate of my brain, images and memories of you shine through effortlessly as symbols of life's most brilliant and timely repose. My body alights. My heart eases. Staring deep into your eyes, as I remember them, I see nothing else. The warmth I once felt resting my weary head upon your shoulder overtakes me in a wave of indescribable comfort. As long as I hold fast to that splendid vision, I feel no pain. Even now.
You never once failed to make me smile, and still today your record holds true. Its true too, that I am occasionally stricken by the immobilising despair of being eternally in your absence, but I continue to grow toward a place of compromise. I can balance the pain against the joy I feel in my memories.
It is my usual day's pursuit to endure the necessary evils of work that I might rest each evening upon the pillow with you by my side. I should die before forgetting the wonderful image of your peaceful face laid sweetly against your pillow, gazing back at me.
