Some days are better than others.

Some days, I don't remember waking up at all; the hours bleed so much that I don't know if the night is coming or going. Not that it matters, but the night hurts more. During the day, people filter in like errant rays of sunlight, trying to get me to leave my bed; leave my room.

If I leave my bed, there's no chance that I could still wake up from whatever Hell I've found myself in. He'd think that was funny, but he didn't believe in Hell. Then again, he's gone, so I'm not sure who was right. I'd ask him, but he's gone.

My mother comes in to clean up and set food by my bed, but everything just tastes bland. I told her so, and she put a salt shaker on my bedside table. I love my mother, but she never liked him. She told me over and over that he'd leave me. She's started leaving brochures with the food now - support groups, choirs, activity partners, gay quilting circles. Because she wants to help. If she wanted to help, she'd bring him back to me.

"Shit," I say aloud, to an empty room. "It's snowing. Honey, you better go plug the car in, or you won't be able to get to work on time."

It hits me then, that I'm alone; that he's gone and I'm just unshaven and dirty in a bed on my own, talking to a spot in the bed that used to be warm; that used to be him. Before I can do anything else, I laugh. I must be in someone else's nightmare - there's no other reasoning for it. There's no other reason that someone, acting in the name of a God that he didn't even believe in, would beat him to death with a golf club.

Who kills someone with a golf club? Who the fuck kills my boyfriend with a fucking golf club? What did he do? Why him, and not one of the million other people in the city - why not a man who beats his wife, or who touches children inappropriately? Some sick, dirty deviant can sell drugs in a dark, lonely alley to other deviants and he gets to go home to his family but my boyfriend gets to die alone on a sidewalk on the way to his car.

I should've been there with him. I should've known he needed me. Where the fuck was I when he was dying? What the fuck was I doing that was so important? Waiting for him to come home, like I always did when he worked late. Clutching my cell phone just to get the call that he was on the way home; that he loved me. Forcing myself to stay awake just to hear his voice before I succumbed.

Five years. The Tiger Woods of Manslaughter will spend five years away from his family for taking away a piece of me. For taking away the warmth on the other side of the bed. The one who leaves me coffee in the morning with a note telling me he loves me. Because how am I supposed to know unless he leaves a note?

God, please. Please, I just want one more minute. I just want him to call me one more time. It doesn't have to be anything profound, I just want to hear him complain that I burned dinner or had too much to drink or tell me that I'm singing off-key in the shower. I want him to tell me that these are all reasons he loves me.

Tell me what to give up, and I'll do it. If I die with him, as long as I get that good-bye; that last look, that last warmth. God, I'm so cold. Was this room always so cold? Why can't I do anything? I feel so helpless. Tell me what to do. Please. I don't know what to do without him. I just need more time to figure everything out.

Who am I supposed to talk to when I can't sleep? What will I do? I can't do this. I can't do this without him. I can't breathe. Everything hurts, and now the tears are coming, like I was a child. Slow, at first, until they're coming so fast and furious that my heart starts to ache all over again.

I can't do this.

I can't.

I want to believe in angels and Heaven and know he's safe, but all I know is that he's not here with me and it's not fair and I don't understand why. And all the brochures and pamphlets in the world can't help me.

I want to wake up. Please, wake me up. I don't want to be in this nightmare anymore. I want to wake up and have you be here and not look at the snow falling and know you won't be here to enjoy it.

I want to be that old couple who knows everything about each other and still manages to love each other more than anything. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life, and fall asleep curled up against you. I want to take care of you when you're sick, and be there when you need me.

But I can't, can I?

I can't do any of those things, because you're not here.

You're gone. And you're not coming back, are you? I can't wake up from this.

I miss you.

God, I miss you so much.

I love you.

I'm sorry.