I miss the sound of his voice. It doesn't matter what he says, I like his voice.
I miss his laughter. Sometimes it booms, sometimes it whispers.
I miss his making fun of me and then calling me baby to take the sting out. I miss his self-deprecation--which is just a mask because he is smart, sexy and funny. I miss his soapbox, when the world just got too much and he had to let it out.
I miss his hands. I miss the rough, long fingers he used to brush my hair out of my face. They feel worked with, rugged not weak. They engulf mine. I miss sweeping my thumb over his just to let him know I'm thinking about him. I miss the strength that flowed from the lines on his palm.
I miss the idea of us--the bumps that would keep us together until we're 90. I miss talks that wrapped us around each other to keep out the world. I miss curled up when we're sick. Smiling across the room when we're not.
I miss his goodness and kindness; even when he was mouthing off. I miss how he made me laugh. I miss the crazy love I felt when he made me feel better after a crappy day. I hate that I took out so much on him. I miss that he let me.
Most of all, I just miss him.