His crooked smile drove me wild. Every one of his photos will torture me with that perfect imperfection as they glare back throughout the dusty corners of my abode. I love photography, but it is an emotional killer when the object of my obsession will no longer come into focus when I look through the viewfinder, and I will be forced to remain with these myriad glimpses of framed memories pondering whether I should burn them or keep them in my little box of “it didn’t work out.” I shall miss the way he would wisp away the hair from my eyes to give me a kiss as I read. The side of his bed will now send chills down my spine as I turn over and view the emptiness that mirrors my inside. I shall crave his spontaneous hugs from behind as I stood in the kitchen waiting for the delicious gourmet coffee he would purchase just for me to brew, now trickling down to the last few grounds. Walks in the park during the changing season will not be the same as it will feel like an eternal winter. The sun will not shine as bright and the trees will seem more barren as they bow their heads to the sight of his absence next to me and the gelid wind echoes his name. I will not be the same. No matter how much time elapses, that crooked smile will appear at the most inopportune times on the moon’s silvery surface and in the lonely corridors of my dreams at night.