Black coffee, a loosely tied scarf and the lingering feel of your fingers on my back. It is Sunday, colder today than this island is used to, and the people here move with a deliberate slowness that is somehow comforting. There is frost on the windows, a shimmer to the shaded pavement and a crisp feel to the air - it almost feels as though this moment of half-sunned silence could crack and shatter if I dare speak the words.
So I don’t.
I keep them inside, as before, as always. But the message is still here, despite my efforts to forgive or forget or simply to focus on something different. I miss you. I miss us. I adore mornings like this, but there is much more than something missing. I am learning, bit by bit, how best to live my life without you - but it all still feels dishonest. These are lessons I don’t really wish to learn. And so here I am again, a perfect cinematic moment of crystal clarity in which all I can do is think of yesteryear. 
This is when you’d pull your cheeky grin and tell me I’m being foolish, again. Some days I wonder if I’ll ever outgrow these childish thoughts and well-worn memories. Am I supposed to? There is such a fine line between moving on and simply forgetting - I do not know on which side I want you to reside.