It's been six freaking months since the Great Exit of the Great Love of my life.

We should be celebrating his 77th birthday in a week. But the birthday man won't be anywhere near.

I still feel weird looking at his pictures. He's still here. He ought to be, with presence feels oh so strongly. 

And at the same time, my eyes get wet, my throat feels lumped, when I pass by random places and am reminded of the last time(s) we were there together. The small restaurant we frequented. The flyover bridge. 

Or the pieces of paper with his hand writings. 

Dang, I miss him so very much.