It's been hell

After a while, I couldn't remember whole pieces of you, as if part of the punishment was a recollection of thoughts and memories through a filter that grew hazier with time.
On certain Sunday mornings when I dreamed of you, I could not picture what your teeth had looked like, or the exact curve of your jaw which fit perfectly in my hand.
I used to imagine us sitting down for a drink at a bright little restaurant, maybe one of those specialty coffee shops which have become so popular.

I swear I could smell the blended beans and the starch of white napkins, even the milled soap that you would have used that morning.
I was able to see your easy smile, which always seem to startle it's way across your face - your smile, but not your teeth - and the way your fingers tapped a light tattoo against the mug. I did not give us conversation: no, you look great, no, what have you been up to? no, it has been hell.
Like your teeth and the line of your jaw, this part was unclear to me. I was not sure if there was a protocol to follow when I welcomed back from hiding my other half, I'd kill to hold you again.