I feel your voice before I hear it.
You rustle about to find comfort between my sheets. The nook of your arm digs into my ribs. I wince, but say nothing. I suffer your trespass in silence.
Wide awake, listening to you mumble melodies. You deny it, but your tear stained eyes give you away.
What’s wrong, I ask.
Nothing, you sigh.
What’s bothering you, I whisper.
Can I sleep here tonight, you motion gently.
Only if I can have your pillow, I tease.
Why, you ask.
Your pillow smells like you, I lie.
But I’m here tonight, you say.
I trace words on your arm as you drift away. My finger spells an invisible ‘howcanItellyouthatIneedyouwhenIcanneverhaveyou’ on your skin.
As you sleep, I tell you things I could never say out loud. So when morning comes, perhaps you’ll somehow understand, that embracing your pillow instead of you, makes the pain bearable. Perhaps you’ll understand that not having you hurts, but having you hurts even more.
Here, but not here.