Our love can now be quantified in finite terms. The clock that seemed destined to spin forever has laid its hands to rest. It no longer produces a running tally but instead displays a final count.

168 days after I lost my wife to suicide, I find myself on the dreaded 16th day of the 8th month of the year, our anniversary. The numerology is not lost on me as I fixate on every aspect of this void, more noticeable today than any other so far.

I have already begun and made great progress creating a manuscript for my next book.

I peer into memories, the times you were still there, and I remember how smiling feels. Continuing to dream, I look into your eyes, embrace your soft skin, and I remember how love feels.

There is only one dream left to enjoy, to know that it's all untrue, but I crave the knowledge to find the way, any way, in which I may chase this dream.

This last wave has been receding, though I'm not counting chickens just yet. This feels familiar now.

I am numb and debilitated by pain simultaneously, and indescribable sensation I wish on no one. I used to be a human being before this.

"It doesn't get better, just different."