She can't stand (without) him

What I'm going to say shouldn't have to be written like this. I shouldn't be awake right now and I shouldn't not have to write this. I want to say He Is, not He Was but here it is.

Amongst chasing all of my passions, fast pleasures that burn like dry leaves, here lies the last of my memories with him.

"What are you going to do?" he asked me.

"I don't really know." I said truthfully.

"A doctor?"

"No..." I laughed. "I wish, I'm not smart enough."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"No really, I'm not."

"You can be whatever you want."

I can't remember what he was doing but he knocked over a level of a shelf and letters flew onto the ground one after the other. He laughed at myself and I laughed at him. Only a few moments later I did the same thing, cartons of cigarettes fell onto the ground. He told me not to worry about it. He picked them up, fixed the shelf. There's more but I'm too tired to write. He was good. There's not a stronger word. Just believe me, he was good.

I don't know what to say to her.

If she cries, if she holds onto me, if I see in the flesh what I already know, I, without any doubt, will begin to crack from my chest and only further fracture like a broken vase. I don't know what I will do. All I want to do is hold her for a while and mend her back together, without any scars but I know like everybody else that scars are permanent. It reaches it's hands over your wound and it holds as tight as it can and then it hardens. You want to touch it, you watch to itch it, you watch to pick it off and start the process all over again. Feeling the pain. Yes, it almost always hurts so good.

I know this sounds like an ongoing cliche but grief and loss are all cliches in life. It happens over, and over, and things don't change. It's repetitive and it continues to hurt. I hate speaking in past tense; it's the most miserable of all tenses.