Alone

Sometimes, when your face lay unguarded and still in the dead of the night, I could remember why I loved you.

And when you shifted, body pressed against mine, completely familiar and warm, I could imagine how it was when you loved me.

But when you rose for the morning, sparing me nothing but a glance before you were gone for the day, I could no longer imagine anything but your constant disdain.

Then, when you no longer came home, and all that was left in your place was a half-empty closet and oppressive quietness, I could not remember you in any other way than as empty and silent as the apartment now was.

It seemed as if everything had changed, but nothing had at all.

The couch was much too big now, the three gray cushions seeming to expand into infinity. But, you had never really sat on the couch with me. I couldn't remember you ever sitting on it.

The bathroom held only one toothbrush in a holder for three, the two plastic holes seeming to be staring up at me, accusatory loneliness evident within their emptiness. But, you kept your toiletries in a bag, just in case there was a sudden business trip, or office overnighter.

The garage had the space for another car outlined between boxes and shelves, but more often than not your car wasn't even in the garage. You parked it on the curb because it was faster to walk out there than open the garage door. 

Everything seemed so much larger than it had been when you were there, but the more I seemed to think about it, the more I realized that you were never even there in the first place.