Your glass of water sits on the dresser on your side of the bed. It’s your glass of water from the night before, the glass of water, the one bedtime ritual we do now without asking. I spot it when I get around to making the bed mid-morning. Looking at it reminds me of our evening together, like other reminders, your coffee cup from our morning coffee, your towel from the shower you took, the chips or wine you left, or the smell of you on your pillow.
I tell myself that people come and go all the time and though, while sad, when the important ones move on I will be happy for what they brought to my life. Perhaps one day, months or ever years down the road that may be a logical conclusion, but the moment it happened I would not be thinking of what you brought into my life. I truly believe it would devastate me I would be sad — no words really for what I would feel.
I have had that gut wrenching cry deep down inside, the ache that tells you you will never get over this. The pain you would give anything to get rid of you, you drink, you cry, you scream spewing all your hate and sorrow but it’s useless. It eventually goes away, but in it’s own time.
Love, the greatest feeling in the world, can also produce the greatest pain.
Your sleep is who you are. Sometimes quiet and uneventful, sometimes restless and fretful.
I reach over and touch your leg. I feel you waking. I touch your leg because you seem too good to be true. And I am afraid one day you will be gone.