This is the end

I take my morning coffee with an extra shot of Bourbon, browsing through the pictures he sends me from Berlin: Potsdamer Platz after dark, a granite wall in the Tiergarten, the roof inside the Galeries Lafayette. Always architectural and sterile, void of people or movement.

When I leave the house I dress in florals and shades of white, his absence is echoing along the fragile coastline where I walk. I pass by people that nod as if they knew me, men with wives and girlfriends stare frightenedly through the transparency of my dress as if in to an eclipse. It's almost too easy.

Back home I close the blinds and shut the door behind me, our bed is cooler than normal and under the covers my fingers are finding their way to wherever he likes to touch me. I close my eyes and it's darker than a dream, nothing breaks the silence but the subtle sensation of skin against fabric and ripples of thundering water in the far away distance.