Now That You’re Gone
No more crescendoing soft scritch-scritch-scritches on bare flesh as you discover all those adorable, itchy places on your body every morning. I buy my daily coffee at the local joint, now that you’re gone. You’ve taken the roasted comforts of fresh-brewed strength with you and I can’t bring myself to look at the Keurig now. The silence is dark and new and through every doorway I expect to hear the frenzied clack of the keyboard while you work, your gentle murmurs of love and greeting to the cat that winds itself around your feet. And every time I enter our bedroom, there is a fist that clenches at my heart, my eyes burn with fresh tears, and I am, in that moment, simply a skeleton holding up a body of skin that feels nothing.
But mostly, the pang of regret lingers on my tongue, that the last words we shared were of salt and vinegar, said only to rub pain in an already open wound. And then you went. And now you’re gone.