I miss you and I'm not going to tell you because I end up screaming it at the top of my lungs. Every night, my arms reach across the empty space in our bed, hoping to feel your embrace one last time. Every time I wake up, I pray that I'll discover it was all a nightmare. Every time my phone rings, I pray it's the doctors telling me it was all a misunderstanding. Instead, I'm standing over your grave, reading you this note. I've always been told, life's not about the breathes you take, but the moments that take your breathe away. But what happens when the moments that took my breathe away were always shared with you.