Help comes and goes but grief is borne alone

I have spent some time writing in a long conversation with a close friend of my  husbands. At first it was wonderful. I was able to share stories and laughs and tears. It meant so much to be able to share some of this grief with someone who knew and loved him with me, knew his particular brand of irreverant humor, his quirks and tolerated his naughty pranks. In the midst of this conversation many of his friends were in and out of the dialog. I declared to all that I was so thankful to have them sharing because each one of them had been influenced by James and they each reminded me of him in someway. I needed them, to spend time in conversation to share their thoughts and our lives together. Sweet Duncan was the best of them. I heard from him most days. He wrote the most beautiful encouragements for weeks. As the end neared I felt its approach. Our words hadn't trickled then, the conversation was raging when it struck me - this can't last. I scrambled to keep it stoked while carefully hiding my desperation. I began to share the stories others of his friends had sent and what I had shared with them in return in hopes to fuel the fire. Then after the barage I let it rest for a few days and sent only a small message, one worth sending, a momento of a memory of the two of them. My answer to his thanks was designed to offer a new vein of conversation to follow and a way out of continuing any discussion. I believe the end has come to this exchange.
I had such an emotional attachment to this conversation it is breaking my heart to loose it. I write here anonomously admiting to these dark feelings of attachment. I know it is not right to ask someone who is not mine to bear such a burden with me. It was such a thrill in this dark and lonely place to have a confidant. One that so closely matched my husbands great wit. I feel like I am spiraling again. The silence seems worse than before.