I have a rather disturbing way of exploring my love for the man I spend my life looking at.

I write poems about him being dead. I truly subscribe to the idea that you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone – so I make my mind believe he is.

Maybe it’s to prepare myself for him one day not being there. When that happens, most of me will be gone too. I often have to remind myself we’re not the same person and he has separate thoughts and feelings.

He went out for three hours today, so I wrote about him dying again.