I take in the lines of your face, every crevice every crack. He often jokes that I could draw him with my eyes closed at this point.
But he lets me stare, he lets my trace my fingers over his stubbled cheek and strong jaw.

I study his movements, how his brow furrows whenever I trace his cupids bow. I then make my way down towards his hands, one the gently clasps the worn book I had gotten him.
He reads it over and over, the same page.

I clasp the other and attempt the stroke the harshness away.
The ***** fingernails, from planting my roses, even though I always insist we could have the gardeners do it.
The bumpy palm, filled with white scars that he never forgets,
I do not mind for it gives me more to remember of him.
More to savor.

I decide to lift his hand up under the candlelight, examining the jagged lines that make him so much more.
A few are still tender he tells me.
How did they happen I ask?
He does not reply, only starts again at the top of the same page.

I lean back, examining the flicker of yellow in his eyes, in the candlelight it seems to turn golden.
Your eyes make you look unreal my love,
I say adoringly looking to the candle.
That’s because I am.
I snap my head back towards him.
But now there is no gold, only white.
And my hand turns cold and heavy.
For he is gone, only half of him remains.