Left Alone

Sleep was impossible. Not in that huge bed. Not alone. The sheets still smelt like her; the pillow still dented where her head would lay. He stared at the empty space next to him, not able to bring himself to turn away.

Maybe if he stared long enough her body would fill the space, her voice the silence, her scent the air, her presence the hole in his stomach. Light began to peak through the cracks in the blinds, morning noises filled the silence, and still he was alone.

His eyes ached, but his brain would not rest, would not let them flutter closed, afraid of the images behind his eyelids. The images of her last goodbye, of the sun glinting off her hair, of the softness of her skin, of her walking away, of her not looking back.

He shouldn’t have let her go, should have listened to her more, should have cared for her better. It was all his fault and there was nothing he could do about it.

Slowly he inched his arm towards her side of the bed. He could almost feel her, almost touch her, but his fingers grasped sheet and his eyes finally closed, finally gave up. His legs curled into his chest and his head arched towards them. He couldn't move, couldn't be, left alone.