She comes every night now, to visit me. I can´t say I mind because I enjoy her company. It makes reality seem less cold, less desolate. She has a warmth about her that others can only attain in their dreams and even then it is only humid by comparison. If she stopped coming, I don´t know what I would do. I´d have only the memory to keep me company. The memory of her would bring me more joy than a thousand other women.

She knows that her coming brings me comfort; I think part of her comes solely for that purpose. She needs me too though, that´s why the rest of her comes. We have a bond, a connection that goes beyond mere words. Words can only do so much. The feeling that you get from merely being in the company of someone is much stronger. The feeling is overpowering. You know that if the feeling leaves, that a part of you will also leave. When she leaves, I don´t know what could be left of me. She is everything to me, my whole being.

I know that she doesn´t want to leave after her visits. I know because I feel the same way. I can hear it in her voice. I can see it in her eyes. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. It makes my heart break to see the pain in her eyes when she must leave. I wish she could stay forever, but she can´t. No one can. So, the rhythmic joy and heartache must continue.

Our meeting place is always the same. She chooses the time though. She needs to have control over something. The habitual meetings make her feel better. I think she has a better acceptance because of it.

Tonight is no different. I can see her walking toward me. It is cold and the wind is blowing, but she doesn´t look like she cares. She has on a long black veil. It seems to be her choice of clothing these days. I don´t think she´s come to meet me without it on.

No one knows about our meetings and no one ever sees them. No one except me. She brought flowers this time. They look like roses. I keep telling her I don´t need them, but she insists. I think she feels better with them here.

She´s crying again. I can´t stand to see her cry. I wrap my arms around her, doing my best to wipe away the tears. Someone so beautiful should never have to cry. It´s my fault she´s crying. I hate myself for it.

She´s calmed down enough to talk now. We never talk much. It´s mostly silence with the two of us thinking about the other. She starts talking to me. Her voice is like a choir of angels. “It´s been a year now,” I wish she wouldn´t bring that up. She always reminds me. “Since you died.”