I used to lie awake in the middle of the night, just to watch you dream.
It was mesmerizing, the way that your head would hit the pillow and you’d instantly fall into a deep sleep.
You laid in the center of the bed, with your right hand nestled against my left thigh.
Touching my body, but not possessing it; your way of reminding me that I wasn’t alone when I was restless.
You loved me.
Later on you gravitated towards our couch. Insomnia, or migraines, you said.
I would kiss your forehead before entering our bedroom, alone.
Everything feels different when you’re solitary in the darkness, I’d say to myself.
Everything was fine. We were fine. You’d return, soon.
You loved me, once.
I moved into a little apartment up the street from where I work.
I took the cat, the only thing of importance to me in the entire house, other than our dog. You kept him. I miss him more than I miss you, most of the time.
I like to imagine that your haunted by all the little things I left behind.
One day you’ll open up the cupboard and find one of my long forgotten coffee mugs. Maybe you’ll find a hair elastic or some loose bobby pins when you clean behind a couch. Strands of my hair in your shower drain.
Eventually I’ll fade away from you completely.
You’ll clutch her thigh in the middle of the night, in the same room where you made me so many promises.