Sometimes at night you rest your head onto your pillow and embrace it as if it were him - although it is too soft a substitute and nothing can replicate his warmth and the way he breathes when he is pretending to be asleep but really is deep in thought, and the way he goes rigid on the rare occurrence that you call him out on it. You make do with the notion that he has perhaps deflated the way you have, only physically so, and at least he is still here and he is still in your arms.
Sometimes you type his number onto your dial pad and savor the way each digit feels under your thumbs as if he is kissing them, smiling gently through your fingers the way only he could, and you've realized time and time again that nothing will ever be the same because there is no replacement for the way he made you feel. No one will ever say your name the way he does and laugh the way he does and kiss you the way he…did..
Adjusting the tense in which you refer to him proves a challenge; one you have very much trouble overcoming despite your adoration for such things. Still it has not settled that he no longer is and does, but was and did.
He did go outside in the rain fully clothed and refuse your assistance in drying him off when the weather finally cleared.
He did brew coffee every morning with the knowledge that neither of you actually drank it, because it smelled like home, and sometimes at night when you nuzzled into his chest to listen to his beating heart you could still smell it as if it were fresh.
He did sing along with the radio while you drove, and you would tell him he sounded awful and he would laugh until you joined him, happy because you were with him and nothing else would ever matter.
He was the most beautiful thing that ever loved you.