I could try to count the number of times I’ve talked to you over the months, but it wouldn’t do me any good. It would make the pain of your departure that much more difficult to bear. The smell of you still lingers, like the night sky clinging to the horizon as the sun makes its ascent.
You left so unceremoniously. One night you were here and the next, nothing. Just the faint outline of your body next to mine in a bed that is now too large. Just the residue of your toothpaste on the bathroom mirror. Just your stained mug taking up room in a near empty cupboard. Memories of a not so distant past that have come to haunt the place that no longer feels like home.
I wish you were here, if not with me then, at least somewhere on this green earth so I knew you were alive and happy. That’s all I want for you and it’s the thing I can’t get.
Some days I can’t pull myself out of bed, the fear of a reality without you, incapacitating me, forcing me into a numb, lifeless state. Some days I wish I was with you, wherever you are, just so I could see you face again, so I could hear your voice and see your dimpled smile, so I could look into your eyes and see the future we could share in them. Everyday I pray this life is a nightmare and I wait hopefully for you to bring me to consciousness, kiss me awake, and wipe my brow, telling me, “This is reality. I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”
Your presence was overwhelming when you were here. Heads turned to look at you whenever you entered a room. You listened in rapt attention to all. You gave relentless. You lived fully. You loved everyone and everyone loved you and you loved me, beyond reason. You were in love with me. And I was envious and in love with you at the same time. You were so much better than me and now I’m here. Alone. Trying to put back the pieces of a life that has shattered.
I’ve lived without you before, but that was when I lived in a state of blissful ignorance, a time before I knew you existed. Now that you don’t anymore and I’m all the wiser, I’m not sure I can.