ne t'en fais pas

there's an imprint

it's on your side of the bed

and even after all this time
it won't go away. i don't
know if i would want it to,
though, because it's all that
i really have left of you.

this is bad, i know, but i can't
push myself to even wash
the blanket you always used
to shield yourself from the
cold of the fan that spun in
the living-room.

it's terrifying to know that
even after all this time that
you have been gone, i still
can't push myself- either
to get over you, or over the
edge of the bridge as my toes
shift around nervously in my
shoes.

the blanket stays laid out on
your side of the bed, covering
the indention left behind,
rather than your body.

the only time the thin fabric
moves from the spot is when
i feel the need to know that
something of you is there, and
i grab it- i hold it close and
tight to my chest, sometimes
even up to my nose to remember
your cologne, and i just let the
tears flow; they're unstoppable.
i'll just slowly roll over in the
now lonely, cold bed and my hand
will reach out, running my fingers
across your side of the bed.

it's lonely.

there's a blanket.

there's an imprint.

- november 17, '17 ; 20:21