Cold Hands

Your hands will always be too cold once she is not around.

For there would be nobody to play with your fingers and compare them with hers.

She would make your mundane traits seem artistic and all you will do is smile, rapt in bewilderment.

Your sky will not be star studded for she would not be around to make you gaze above and identify silly blobs that she would brand as constellations with frivolous laughter.

You will long for that sweet smell of her quaint perfume, but it would all be gone too long.

Your bed will never be as warm, because she will not be around, tugging at the sheets and giggling while she tries to snuggle. It will suddenly be too big, cold and empty for you but there is nothing that you would be able to do about it. You will sit there, amidst your pool of smoke, trying to drown that need for warmth but there will be no comfort because the echoes are long gone.

Those walks would now make no sense, because her constant chant of glory will not be there to push you two forward. There will no longer be anyone asking you to walk slower, or to stop because she needs to sit down and absorb the moment.

Your scotch will be all bland because she would not be there to compliment you on the silly cocktails that you make which she gulps down with childish fervor only to smile back at you with playfulness gleaming through her eyes.

Your crisp white shirts would seem redundant because she would not be around, planning little conspiracies to spoil it with ketchup, or steal away your favorite shirt.

Your nights would be a little too lonely because there will be no ‘middle of the night’ phone call to surprise you with cheesy lyrics. You will wait, and it would be so endless yet so obvious.

Ice cream would never taste as interesting because you will miss her joyful squeals as she enjoys her favorite flavor.

You’d miss the fuzzy feelings on a mountain top, where she cheered you up while you drowned in cheap wine and stories that trickled down till the wee hours as you went ahead and shared parts of you that now seemed plastered in memory.

Your mornings would lack the sunshine, because she won’t be there, beaming at you with her sheepish requests for more coffee, and the pillows would always seem too lifeless because she will not be around to fight you with it.

Your sunsets will never be as beautiful because she won’t be there with you to gaze at it with. You would still want to soak in the feeling of the sunset, but all you will find is stillness.

Defeat would hurt even more, because she would not be there to console you with her badly timed jokes. Success would seem futile, because she will not be around to celebrate it for you more than your own self.

You’d write heavily, but it will not be the same as those handwritten notes that she would strew your universe with, and wait for you to read once she’s gone.

You will drown yourself in reading but no words would match the scribbled sentence that is etched on her favorite book that you own as a special prize.

Wine would begin to lose its class, and coffee will begin to dwindle down in its comfort.

You will run to surround yourself with people. You will want voices, and laughter and the comfort of hugs, and you will get them all. People will be there to hold you, they will try to heal you, but you will keep aching. You will ache for all that you pushed away, and you will lust, and long, and crave and want, but the bridge that you burnt will not let you stay.’

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