Bitter. Sweet.

The only time that the hurt swells is when I get caught up by the detachment that used to serve as my defense; it allows me to create a moment, flawlessly woven, from my memory of you, by my longing for you: I'm pouring a glass of orange juice and, suddenly, I feel you behind me; I feel your presence in the tingling along the entire length of my spine, and know that, if I turn, I will see you there.

I do turn around, though, and I see what I knew was there before those wonderful seconds that convinced me that I would see you - air, space, and the kitchen floor.