There's a certain density in the air now, encapsulated in the raindrops, it keeps me falling in and out of sleep until the morning. I dream intensely and wake up in the dark, the heart in a violent uproar, all I can wear is thin layers of lace and his intrusive absence.
This morning on his side of the bed, something
about a dream I had forcing me to reach for the letter I wrote to him,
the one in the night stand drawer. My fingertips brushing against a soft
piece of fabric and the warmth of the air turns to ice in a fraction of
On top of the letter, neatly folded and smelling
vaguely of his cologne: the black Givenchy cardigan I got him for his
birthday. Hours later I still can't escape the image of him placing it
there, of him finding the letter, reading it and putting it back before I
could see him, and of him saying "I love you" just before he left, not
letting me know if he had read it or not.