One morning my wife left this, a gift from her mother, next to her pillow. If you were gone, I'd miss your smile, your giggle, and your laugh; the outline of your forehead, nose, the angle of your chin. If you were gone, I'd miss your warmth, your touch, your tears, hugs, kisses, outstretched arms, your opinions of my clothes. If you were gone, I'd miss shared sunrises on the couch: your coffee, the cat, the smell of autumn through the screen. If you were gone, I'd miss the way you want to be surprised, the way you plan adventures the expressions in your eyes. If you were gone, I'd miss the concert tickets in your purse, the Disney films and Broadway, and the memories we rehearse. If you were gone, I'd miss the days to bring you flowers and the meaning and the colors your living brings to mine. If you were gone, I'd miss your giving and your gentleness, the way you wrap up boxes, gifts for other broken hearts. If you were gone, I'd want you to know that