#Day 757: Tuesday Nights Spent Alone

I haven’t counted the number of days we spend together. I have however counted the weeks and months we spend away from each other. They do in all honesty, seem longer than the days we were in one city, all but an hour apart.
And now with an ocean and a thousand miles keeping us distant, I feel emptier than I’ve ever felt. It feels like you packed my gut along with your black striped socks and shipped it all the way to your apartment. Home feels like another barren gallery, and your side of the bed no longer houses coffee stains.
I knew what I was getting into. So did you. But you see, we had three years together and I would spend them in no way but thence.
I make myself an omelette and toast a single piece of bread, your mug is gathering dust on the shelf. Strong, bitter and caffeinated; I wish I felt like the way you liked your coffee. But I feel like a spinster from a Brontë novel, like weak English tea.
I was never one to romanticise solitude but it seems like a sweet escape from sitting on the couch without your hair in my face. Are you waking up at eight and picking at your chin the way you did? Are you sleeping with two pillows and having a muffin, buttered and warm, just the way you did?
I know I must not but I wish I could pick up the phone and hear your voice. But no. I know we’re done because I can’t drive down to your office for lunch or paint a portrait of your bed hair for my art show this weekend anymore.
I never knew that a twelve hour flight could leave me feeling comatose and mechanical, because it feels like the last time I felt your gaze was a lifetime before the last and now all I can do is wait for this one evening to pass. This one dreadful Tuesday night, and I fear that the next morning will be worse.


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