I can't go out on the balcony to look at the stars, because you love the stars, you navigate by them, you have a constellation app in your iPhone that you scrolled through on every date to show me which ones had me dazzled that night. So on my balcony seeing two stars tonight I cried. Saturday I saw the same one, very bright, and asked you. You said, "It's Venus." I laughed and teased you and said no, Venus was right here beside you. You said No, that's Aphrodite. I laughed again.

I can't go walk on the beach where I used to watch for your ship in the far distance on its way up to Portsmouth, where you used to text me as I walked, where you told me you had a surprise for me when I was sad, and the surprise was that you were coming home the next day.

I can't swim in the water where you held me, arms straight out, letting me ride on the current but keeping me safe, where you were almost pathetically eager to find me a sand dollar because I mentioned once how I wanted one and had never found one on my own.

The night I heard from you finally, I didn't want to, but I picked up that sand dollar from the tiny blue Chinese dish I kept it in, someplace beautiful to keep something precious, and crushed it in my fingers til all I felt was the sand sliding down my skin into the sink. It was gone. I'll never get it back. I'll never get you back.

I should never have asked to see you in your work clothes. You looked so handsome, such a natural leader, radiating authority and intelligence and confidence from those blue eyes lighter than the blue of your officer's uniform. It stopped my heart. You smiled and said you were distracting me from getting changed myself, and turned and went back to the living room so that I could put on what I had brought for you to see me in. But you in that moment were so beautiful and no longer mine that afterwards, I couldn't stand it. I gently kicked the blue pants under the bed. I softly pushed the blue button down flame retardant blouse over the other side of the mattress. One arm stayed on the bed, the rest hanging. I stretched-- the bed is wide-- and shoved it once, twice. Finally it went over the edge. I couldn't look at it and think of you so handsome in it and know that you no longer looked at me the way you did the day you were desperate to find the sand dollar, the way you looked at me the day I was feeling unsure about you and you looked so upset I came wading back to you through the surf and put my arms around your chest and squeezed you tight. I just wanted to see you smile again.

I don't know what love is if this is not love.