when you left, I was torn apart. I couldn’t pull myself out of bed.
I just layed there, staring at your coffee mug on the nightstand. I imagined your fingers clasped around the warm cup, as you slowly lifted it to your lips that one cold morning so many weeks ago. You peeked at me through your bangs and I saw the faintest hint of a smile tug on the corners of your lips, before you set the mug down and curled up beside me, gently kissing my shoulder.
The morning sun would peek cautiously through the curtain, but we would stay and bed for just a little while longer and listen to the cold breaths of air that would blow through the open window. Just a few more minutes to hold you close.
But now as I reach out at night for your warmth, all I feel is cold sheets. Sometimes I wake up, and for a moment I think I smell the scent of your hair on the pillow. But it’s not your hair.
It’s not you.
I remember we didn’t have “your side” and “my side” of the bed. We just kissed and intertwined ourselves together- as close as we could get, and you would bury your nose into my neck because it was cold, and I would pull your legs close to mine, and trace your arms and knees gently, or count the little freckles on your face.
But the warmth is long gone.
All thats left of you is the cold cup of coffee on the nightstand.
A rotting reminder of what was once there.
A reminder of you.