Making the bed
Making the bed alone is one of the hardest things. Making the bed used to be hilarious, because I'm so bloody useless. I'd do the pillows, you'd get frustrated with me and do everything else. I think I avoided changing the sheets for about two months - not because I couldn't be bothered, not because I'm bad at it, but because I'd be doing it without you.
It's the strangest things that make me feel like there's an empty space in my chest. Like making the bed. Or sometimes, washing my hair. Or brushing my teeth. I miss the stupid faces you'd pull at me in the mirror.
It's the mixture of pain and joy with it all. All of the memories make me smile and laugh, and then realising that they're all just memories makes my eyes prick and my stomach hurt.
When I'm sick it's the hardest. All I want is to be in your arms, have you stroke my hair, have you hold me, have you tell me you love me.
I don't even remember what your body feels like.
For six years I shared your bed, for almost two years we shared our bed, and I can't even fucking remember what your body feels like.
You feel like smoke in between my fingers, like the dark is creeping in faster and faster until it consumes every single memory of you.
What does your chin look like? I remember the gap in your eyebrow. The one it took me two months to notice.
I think I remember the shape of your hand. Or maybe just the way your hand felt in mine.
I remember the mole on your back. Underneath your right shoulder blade. Oh gosh, was it your right shoulder? Was it above the shoulder blade?
I remember photos of you vividly. They're imprinted in my brain. So why is your whole, vibrant being fading from it?
I bought three mini bûches de Noël today, just like we did last year. I sent you photos of them. I bought them because I felt a hole. And then tasting them without you made me sadder.
It's been four months. I don't know anyone else who has left someone after six years. Someone told me that "four months is a long time, you should be feeling better by now." I'm not convinced this person knows what it is to be in love, to be so entangled in someone else's life, and to have to leave it for reasons other than falling out of love.
Are we in love? What are we? I don't think I'll ever stop loving you, and I don't think that's any sort of hyperbole.
I think that's the natural state of things. I think even if I love someone else, I will still love you. Who knows in what capacity, but I know it will always be love.
It feels like I left a marriage. I feel like you're the ex-husband I'll be contacting and checking in on and in some way involved with forever. But we have nothing to tie us together except friends and a mutual birthplace. So one day, when one of us falls in love again, will we finally cut off and never talk again?
I made the bed alone last night.
It's the strangest things that make me feel like there's an empty space in my chest. Like making the bed. Or sometimes, washing my hair. Or brushing my teeth. I miss the stupid faces you'd pull at me in the mirror.
It's the mixture of pain and joy with it all. All of the memories make me smile and laugh, and then realising that they're all just memories makes my eyes prick and my stomach hurt.
When I'm sick it's the hardest. All I want is to be in your arms, have you stroke my hair, have you hold me, have you tell me you love me.
I don't even remember what your body feels like.
For six years I shared your bed, for almost two years we shared our bed, and I can't even fucking remember what your body feels like.
You feel like smoke in between my fingers, like the dark is creeping in faster and faster until it consumes every single memory of you.
What does your chin look like? I remember the gap in your eyebrow. The one it took me two months to notice.
I think I remember the shape of your hand. Or maybe just the way your hand felt in mine.
I remember the mole on your back. Underneath your right shoulder blade. Oh gosh, was it your right shoulder? Was it above the shoulder blade?
I remember photos of you vividly. They're imprinted in my brain. So why is your whole, vibrant being fading from it?
I bought three mini bûches de Noël today, just like we did last year. I sent you photos of them. I bought them because I felt a hole. And then tasting them without you made me sadder.
It's been four months. I don't know anyone else who has left someone after six years. Someone told me that "four months is a long time, you should be feeling better by now." I'm not convinced this person knows what it is to be in love, to be so entangled in someone else's life, and to have to leave it for reasons other than falling out of love.
Are we in love? What are we? I don't think I'll ever stop loving you, and I don't think that's any sort of hyperbole.
I think that's the natural state of things. I think even if I love someone else, I will still love you. Who knows in what capacity, but I know it will always be love.
It feels like I left a marriage. I feel like you're the ex-husband I'll be contacting and checking in on and in some way involved with forever. But we have nothing to tie us together except friends and a mutual birthplace. So one day, when one of us falls in love again, will we finally cut off and never talk again?
I made the bed alone last night.
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