Lost without You

I'm staring at your door.
The knob that won't ever be turned by you again.
And when I twist it I feel you, almost as though you're holding my hand.
And when I walk in I feel like I should see you at your desk, painting a portrait or writing.
And as I lay on your bed I smell you and try to wrap myself in your warmth thats gone cold.
And I'm beggin to hug you.
My throat is tight with words I want to tell you.
My eyes are burning because I'm squeezing them shut so tight, no tears to wet them.
All I want is to think that you're at the beach.
Tomorrow you'll be home, smiling and burnt, shaking the sand out of your golden hair.
And I fall asleep to that thought, wrapped in your blanket.
Though in the back of my head I know.
In my heart I know.
You aren't coming back.

I'm stumbling home after picking myself off the ground. My knees are scrapped and a line of blood is running down my left leg. But I don't really care, all I can think about is going home and wrapping myself in your blanket. Feeling safte surrounded by your smell.

When I get to the door I fumble with the key, unlocking it with shaking hands. My whole body hurts from the sobbing spasms that I keep having.

I finally get into the house. I drop my bag and kick off my shoes as I head upstairs. Or stumble. At one point I'm almost crawling up them, my palms keeping me steady on the carpeted stairs.

When I get to your door I can't go in.

I slump against it, pounding fists on the frame.

Sobbing.

And when I fall asleep I swear I hear you whisper in my ear, "NIght Cubby Bear".

---

My mom wakes me up when she gets home, panic in her voice.

She seems so reieved when my eyes open, her arms wrap tightly around me, muffled words in my hair.

Apparently my fit left sticky tear tracks on my cheeks and she takes notice.

"I'm fine mom."

My tone much have hurt her because her ams drop defeatedly from me.

And I feel really bad because I know she's hurting too.

"I love you." I add, wanting the cold in my voice to melt away so that it sounds realistic.

A smile creeps to the edge of her lips and she stands up. She waver a bit, finds some inner strength she seems suprised she has, and walks to her room.

I watch as her door closes, hoisting myself up and moving to my room. As I drop the dirty clothes I'm wearing on the floor I rummage through my drawers and pull out a pair of your boxers and an old shirt.

I get into my bed but I can't go to sleep.

So I move to my desk and pull out my notebook. I haven't written in ages.

When I open the composition book that I've been writing in for ages an envelope sits patiently under the cover.

On the front of it your handwritting scrawls Cubby Bear.

If I could move I would open it, but I'm so stunned that my body has stopped listening to my brain, which is screaming "OPEN IT!!".

After a few seconds, which beat on in lifetimes, I once again have control and I reach for it.

Opening it seems so much more difficult now that I'm not breathing, which I take note of and start to inhale.

A bundle of papers sits inside, folded nicely, though there are so many of them.

I pull the bunch out and unfold them.

Your handwritting is so messy, so familiar, and it makes me smile. At the top of the page I see the date, the date you died, and I know what it's going to say before I even read the first sentance.