It’s dark. The only light in my room is that of the moon pouring through my window. It’s cold. I would say the only warmth is from my body, but that too went cold the day you left. It’s quiet. A deafening silence has filled the room so loud my ears are ringing from a sound that is not there. It’s lonely. In the midst of crying I reach over to cuddle you, but all I feel is cold sheets.
It’s funny. I remember drifting away to the sound of your breathing getting heavier as you slipped into a deep sleep. You used to call for me in the middle of the night and pull me closer. Why haven’t you come back?
I haven’t moved. Not to eat, smoke, or to even answer my phone. I keep praying that this is a nightmare. The type of nightmare you see in movies. You know, where it’s terrifying, but you finally wake up.
I haven’t woken up. Why can’t I wake up? I keep hoping that I’ll roll over from these continuous tear-filled naps and feel you with me. Hugging me. Holding me.
They say that it’s okay; there’s plenty of fish in the sea, and this too shall pass. This is just a phase that time will heal.
There’s nobody in this “sea” like you. I can try to move on, but I’ll compare everyone to you. Everything will remind me of you. I can’t even walk into another room without hearing the echo of your laughter.
Your laughter. Your husky voice in the mornings, and your soft voice in the evenings. The warmth of your lips pressing against mine; filled with love, hope, and the promise of tomorrow.
Tomorrow. Where did that go? How could you let that go? Let us go? Where did I go? Where did you go?
A week ago I had us. Today I have the sinking bed that Depression’s fingers wrapped around me and pinned me down to. The pillows that Anxiety’s soft lips told me to lay my head on, but now my head will not lift up. The isolation my mind promised I’d be safe in. The dark, lonely abyss of heartache.