"I don't know whether I should kiss you or not",
as your mouth found mine.
I remember that first kiss, and the last kiss, and all the kisses inbetween.
12,775 days. So how many kisses?
The last time you kissed me was two days before you left. You were so frail and unable to move at all. To be near you, I had gotten in the habit of crawling into your hospital bed, here in our living room, and without placing any weight upon you, I would straddle your failing body, and bury my face in the pillow at your neck. You had been in a deep sleep for all of the night and most of the day, probably visiting other worlds, as you used to say. I raised my head to look at you and your eyes were open. Then, in the most heroic display of strength, you raised your upper body and kissed me. Twice.
The shadow in the mist could have been anyone.
But it wasn't.
It was always you.