Gone        

He is gone.

When he is gone, it feels like my world contracts, like I’ve been put on pause.

When he is gone, I think up ways to spend my time. I am interested in spending it, never in saving it, while he is away. I have too much. My days are divided into tasks, separated, useless things to pass the day away. My days divide me from him.

My nights are longer.

When he is gone, while he is gone, I call on friends and do normal things. I cook dinner, I clean the house. I go for short walks and pick up groceries. I miss him.

When he is gone, I carry on. I avoid listening to sappy songs. I try not to get too terribly pathetic, and resist the temptation to complain to my friends. My laughter doesn’t sound hollow, and my smiles are genuine. I am able to converse on a wide variety of topics, none of them even containing a hint of him.

I remember the feel of his skin, every detail of his body and how it feels against mine. I remember the feel of his lips at our first kiss, the smell of him in the morning. The sound of his voice on my skin. His taste. His smile. The way his eyes close in sleep. I keep these things to myself, little miracles. 

When he is gone, I feel switched off.

When he is gone, I go too.