For now, all I have are flashes of living dreams and memories.
The books you left me, with a faint scent which reminds me of you and laying in your warm embrace. I close my eyes and I can see your face again, watch your eyes gaze back at mine; and my fingers remember how that face felt and trace it slowly in the air. A lock of hair pushed against my cheek, my lips, where so late the whole crop of dark locks had been. And oh, recalling the lingering taste you'd leave in my mouth, or the soft press of your lips against mine.
I retrace the steps we walked together, hand in hand (a grip so tight and firm); smiling and crying. I was always so quiet on those walks, my thoughts kaleidoscoped like the sun spilling through the intertangled leaves on a tree; too shy, too whelmed to word any of my millions of thoughts or unspoken teasing remarks. I wished my eyes and glance would speak when my mouth could not, and I'd sometimes try to make them, never sure how I'd succeed.
But now you're far away again and I can't let my eyes speak any more. No more strolls for a while yet. But now I've touched you, heard you, seen you all at once. I know you a little better now. I have tangible memories I can hold on to, like I clung to your neck.