The room is cold this time of year. I stretch, seeking familiar warmth, but I am alone; alone in a vast sea of swirling blankets. The bed seems so big and empty without you; I roll about, crashing like the surf on the sand.
I awaken to the sound and smell of brewing coffee. The rich aroma permeates my consciousness and pulls me to the dawn.
I stumble towards the kitchen, imagining, hoping, that you’ve returned.
Instead, I see the automatic coffee maker I purchased just last night.
I pour myself a mug and sit, while I try to still my beating heart. It’s been only ten minutes since my soul returned to me and already I am overwhelmed by the absence of your presence.
Yesterday, our neighbor John asked me where you had been lately. I lied. I told him that you were out of town on business. We’re supposed to have dinner with Molly and him next week. I’ll have to tell them the truth; if I can admit the truth.
I take a shower and shave. I’ve taken to wearing your cologne lately. You know that bottle you left in the medicine cabinet.
I know it’s probably not healthy for me, but it’s the only comfort I get. For a time, a brief moment in fact, I can imagine you are still with me.
A towel wrapped around my waist. I open my closet to prepare for the day, for life, but instead I am confronted with empty hangers.
Those hangers once held your clothes and with them my dreams.
Now they sway silently, like barren branches in a winter breeze.
I fall to my knees and cry.
I am alone.