You spend the nights, but not the mornings, and I’m left waking up to your silhouette on the sheets.
The only reflection in the bathroom mirror is disappointment, and I recite my policies like a crying lost child in the supermarket.
Every time I close my eyes, I see things I pray I won’t see. I see you. Your eyes. And within those two brown pools of gentle sadness, I see the power to destroy.
The toothpaste can never mask away the taste of your lips, and my pace quickens as I try to brush the veneer of our mischiefs off my teeth, but the only thing I spit out is a trail of who I used to be.
I step into the shower and memories wash me dirty. The dagger of nostalgia at my throat, keeping me just close enough to being alive.
I layer my clothes not because it keeps me warm, but because it simulates your body heat. The warmth of us together. The warmth of being in your arms.
I try again, another sip of coffee, because you like coffee and I loved you. The bitter aftertaste brings me back again, when dawn came and we knew it was time to go.
I count down the hours of work, like how I counted the minutes of our conversations before silence fogged the space around us again. Comfortable silence in the back seat of your car, with you embracing the undulating ups and downs of your past and me thinking about the dark vagueness of the future.
The dishes on the dinner table all lined at one side, and I look up from my plate to see you absent in your chair. And suddenly the wine is salty and my vision blurry.
I lay my head down, my flat back looking at the ceiling, and I think about you. Everything is silent but you.
You gave me every little thing to hold on to, every little thing but you.