When I close my eyes, the millions of glowing white spots on the back of my eyelids become her freckles. Every wrinkle in my bed sheets is the lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. Each laugh is hers, bright and loud and warm. Silk is the smoothness of her hair. A brush of a hand from a stranger is the soft feel of her lips on my cheek, and the giggle that comes with it. Her eyes are my cup of coffee in the morning— deep, brown, and enticing. Holding my blanket around me in bed is holding her, feeling the rise and fall of her chest and her breath on my cheek, reminding me that she’s there, even when she’s not. I open my sock drawer and it’s hers, and she’s digging through it to look for something wear, even though I’d prefer to stay in bed all day. I feel the gentle touch of her hand in anyone attempting to get my attention. I hear her loud voice and her quiet one all in one from the sounds of the tv. I see her in the dress still hanging on my closet door from our last dance. I feel her in the untyped words of when she falls asleep in conversation. Even in the forced dinner prayer I feel her hand in mine, though it’s only my own two folded hands. I see her in the people around me, in every compliment and kind action. I see her in joy and sadness, in struggle and victory, in morning and night. I see her in everything, just as I see everything in her, and I can only hope to be able to love everything else in the way I love her.