"Whenever I talked about the future you always tried to change the subject and it hurt because I thought you couldn't see a future where we were together, a future I was in for you.

But you're dead now and I realize you weren't changing the subject because you couldn't see me in your future, you were changing the subject because you couldn't see me in your future knowing one day I wouldn't be a part of it anymore. You couldn't imagine a future where we were happy together, where we gave Henry a brother or a sister or even both and then it ending abruptly.

I get that now because even though you're the one who had that worry, I'm the one living in it. I'm the one living without you, without our future, I'm the one living with only a tombstone with your name on it and the sentence "Wish you were here". It hurts. It hurts more than when you changed the subject.

I think of you and the future we could have but didn't and my heart aches, my eyes sting from the tears and my hands tremble, still somewhat, somehow, remembering your silhouette, the outlines of your body, your curves and your touch.

God, it hurts.

Your memory hurts.

I think of you still. Even when there's probably more alcohol in my veins then blood, even when there's more smoke in my lungs than air, even when there's more open skin on my wounded knuckles than closed skin, even when the pills slip past my tongue, down my throat and I think for a fleeting second that in my dreams I'll find peace of your beautiful face but see only that same face, even I wish beyond anything I could stop thinking of you at free will, I fail.

I anger myself at my lack of power against your memory while at the same time hoping beyond hope that that same power will never be a part of me for I do not know what I would at times if it weren't for your memory.

At times, I think perhaps one more bottle of whiskey would be fine but a whisper of your voice in my head pleads me otherwise.

At times, I think perhaps smoking isn't enough, perhaps something stronger that goes not on my lips but my veins would be better but a whisper of your voice in my head pleads me otherwise.

I fear for the day I will no longer have the memory of the sound of your voice in my head because another voice would not be as effective in preventing me from accomplishing these things as yours is.

Do not think I consider suicide at the lack of you for I do not.

I consider moments, be them minutes or hours where I can forget I will never again have you in my arms, where I can forget I will never again have your fingers running through my hair, where I can forget I will never again have your lips touch my skin, where I can forget I will never again have you.

I consider those moments because the lack of them hurts even if at the same time it keeps me sane.

My love for you was never expressed, a love left unshown for fear of its rejection and although I could show you affection, although I could touch you, my love could not afraid of what it would say. It hurt to not be able to let it speak, it pained me every day since its arrival in my body for you to let it be free and do as it may, speak as it wished.

But the most painful thing about unexpressed love is that it never fades away.

And mine never will. Until my death in the earliest my love for you will haunt me, remind me of its lack of time to express itself to you because of my lack of courage.

The tears in my eyes right now, the bottle before me, slowly but surely loosing liquid in favor of placing it on my mouth, the lit cigarette between my fingers burning them because of the large amount of time I choose to neglect it, all of these things remind me along my unexpressed love of my lack of courage, of my lack of willpower to show you what I feel while I still could show you, while your lungs could still fill with breath, while your heart could still pump blood, while your eyes could still sparkle at the sight of our son.

I ache and I hurt and I burn from inside and my heart still refuses to forget the day I last saw your body while it was still warm and the day I last saw your body before the casket closed.

My eyes refuse to seize the tears from falling and my mouth refuses to seize its drinking although I myself cannot stop it from doing so.

I know though that when this bottle bares no more liquid in it that I will refrain from seeking another for the whisper of your voice in my head is pleading with me to stop and I have yet to reach three quarters of it.

People tend to leave my life.

It's expected from them by this point, at least to me.

I never expected you to do it though.

I suppose that's why it took your departure for me to realize why the future was something you refrained from speaking about.

People tend to leave my life but you weren't just people, you were my person.

I guess the key word in that sentence is 'were'."