Stop seeing his eyes in other people's faces. When you pass someone on the sidewalk, don't let your chest throb with recognition. Don't stare for a few seconds longer than necessary, remembering how you used to swim grateful laps in depths so much like those that are achingly familiar. 

 When you're in a crowded place and catch a whiff of his scent, don't grab onto something to keep from passing out. Ignore the spots swimming in front of your eyes, the pit in your stomach like a rollercoaster drop. Plug your nose to the million olfactory invasions the world can wage. You don't know them like you thought you did, and the nose is a fickle organ.

His hair will be everywhere, on heads you think you recognize. Pretend it doesn't hurt when you see someone whip his head around and you swear you can feel it tickle your collarbone where he used to lay his head there. 

Don't feel loss like a phantom limb, the wound site throbbing like a hacksaw amputation. Cradle the bleeding stump of the person you thought you were when you were part of something beautiful and remember the one that used to be there, but don't sting your skin with tears.

 Because soon enough, scars will skate over the place where something raw and reeling used to be, and you will be stronger than before, but just a little less whole.  If you guard your spirit against these frequent affronts, these breaches of barriers you never expected to need again, your fortresses will be fortified with a mettle you never knew you had. 

You will raise your head blinking to the burning, rising sun and your eyes will tear and stream with it. Because it hurts, it stings, it sears in places you didn't know you had, but beneath the pain, is beauty.