It was hot and humid when I walked you to your car. The sky seemed to be mocking us, the sun shining in the exact opposite way I felt. You got in you car and left. I slowly walked back to my room.
The bed remained unmade, the sheets tangled. Our bodies still on the bed minutes – hours – after we’ve left. The pillows thrown on the floor with the same carefree abandon I felt when we woke up, not knowing, not caring, what the world outside my room was doing. I stayed on my side, and for days I wouldn’t be able to lie on your side. Because it was your side. Nothing but a pillow taking your place for now.
I laid my head down and felt cold. Is this what it felt like not to have your body on top of mine? Your finger prints on my skin have not washed off. The traces of your lips have not washed off. And I am reminded of your hazel eyes looking at me, searching, drinking it all in. When you kissed me with the ferocity of a thousand lions – passionate, urgent – all my breaths staggered, gasping, as you took my breath away. And you, holding me, pulling me in, far from the reality we’re putting off, as I discovered life in the nook of of your neck. My fingers lost in your hair as i remind myself to breathe.
And then you were gone.
In Portugese, there is no way to say “I miss you.” There is only a way to say, “I feel your absence.” You are like the last song I hear before turning off the radio. The last few notes of a melody hanging in the air. You were playing in my head over and over again. It was the last form of you I had, and it lingered. You lingered.
Hell is holding you in my sleep and waking up alone.