One-Hundred Days

I look up to the sky at the stars and wonder if they're the same stars you're looking at.
I wonder if you're looking at them from a different angle, from above rather than below, and I wonder if you can see me here lying outside in the tall grass, the abandoned field behind our old home.

I moved out years ago, let someone else bear the burden of seeing your face on every wall, hearing your voice in every creak and moan the floorboards produced. It wasn't until I left and heard the same sounds in a different home that I realized it had always been me.

It's been years since you've went away, and had I known that day would be the last time I saw you, I would've made things so different. I would have kept you next to me longer, convinced you to sleep next to me just a little while longer. I would have kissed you more and smiled at your mussed bedhead. I would have gotten up with you and stood beneath the hot water of the shower with you, the spray beating at my back as I stared up at you. I would have kept you with me as long as possible, instead of helping you leave, only worrying about the same thing you were worried about, being late to work. I realize now how trivial that was, how much it never even mattered. Had I of known, I would have done so many things differently.
But I suppose everyone has regrets such as these.

I wonder if you can hear me cry late at night, in a new bed without your imprint or scent. I wonder if you can see me curled into a ball around your blanket, coiled inside of your old jacket you never let go of during the cold winter months. I wonder if you can hear me, like you heard me before, when I would cry at night with you beside me, trying to be as quiet as possible, and you would turn on your side and roll me to face you and pull me into your chest without a word. You never failed me at those times, and now these nights I lie facing away from your side of the bed, hoping to somehow feel your arms wrap around my waist and hear your calm whispers in my ear, never asking what's wrong but always telling me that it was okay and you were there. It never mattered what was wrong, you never asked because you knew it would only make me feel worse, so instead you always insisted you were right there with me and would never leave, consoling me like a small child with false promises that a person could never keep, no matter how hard they tried.

I wonder now, as I lie in the field where we first met, if you can see these stars that occupy my crying eyes. This field is a home of many of our firsts, and it is the only place that is worse than our old home when it comes to seeing and hearing you constantly. I can feel your presence beside me now, and I can see the little cloud of breath accompanying my own. I'm wearing your jacket, my new safety blanket, and I think that you must be awfully cold, lying there with nothing on but a t-shirt and jeans, so I peel off the jacket and lay it over you, kissing your cheek. I lay my head on your chest and sing to myself, a song we wrote together in the hushed morning hours when no one should be awake. I sing to myself and feel your arm wrap around my waist, a hand resting on my side, warm strong and comforting.

I curl in closer to you, and close my eyes, and I fall into dirt.
Your jacket is lying on the ground, empty. I take it in my hands and stand to stare at the stars. I sing myself the song we wrote together. I cry out to you, with the jacket in my hands, and I wonder if you can even hear me like I heard you.

I cry up to the stars, the song we wrote echoing through the empty field.
"Can you hear me?"

And as I start to walk away, I turn my face away from the stars, and I hear the response I've been waiting for since you left for the last time.
"Always."