I lie on the bed, moving my fingers absentmindedly over the spot where I still feel your presence. I would give anything for my palm to touch something concrete, to touch your skin. But every time it doesn’t, pain shoots through me; my heart has no more pieces to break and yet the void of you not being here never stops trying, shattering me. How can there be nothing else to give and yet feel like it’s taking everything away from me again? With every single breath?
I move on to my stomach, my face buried in the pillow. A fresh wave of anguish shoots through me as it hits me there is no scent of you left. I rewind to the last moment we were intertwined here, in this exact spot. I don’t want to, it’s too hard, but I can’t help myself; you are engraved in to the very core of who I am.
I fist the sheet. My hand still feels empty because I can’t grab your hair now, messing it up; I can’t palm your face, running my fingers over your stubble.
I hate the t-shirt I’m wearing because it’s not yours. I hate my bed now because there is only me in it. And I hate that I’m tormenting myself with what is left of my memories.
But what is even worse than reminiscing about it now is when sleep renders me helpless and unguarded, leaving my brain and heart open to be tortured with a hallucination that feels so real it makes me wake up in disorientation. Asleep, I can still feel your skin under my fingers, I can still hear your voice calling my name, I can still smell you. I still have you there. So I don’t know what’s worse. What’s better? Not to be awake and have you, waking up to the agonizing realization that’s an illusion? Or to be wide awake, present in the now, and not have to deal with the fresh loss every time I open my eyes, just feeling it simmer under the surface like a shadow?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
What I do know is this… I hate you because you’ve caused me being in this situation. Because you’ve poured water on my life-loving fire. You’ve changed me.
And I hate myself for loving you despite it all.