[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]
His voice was no more the roaring thunderstorm it had been right after his death. I used to hear him professing his love for me in the middle of the night. I could still hear every confession he had made to me, as if he was lying beside me, his fingers twirling their way into my hair.
But as of late, his voice has lost its strength. No more can I clearly hear him speak my name. The thundering
timbre is now only a whisper caressing my cheek like the faintest gust of wind. Where I used to fall asleep listening to his protestations, I now stay awake throughout the night, fighting my memory to give me even a glimpse of his deep chocolate voice.
Why must time be so cruel as to heal the wound slightly only to snatch away the very sutures that were holding you together?