he talks to her in the mornings, a smile sewing into his words
when her wind-chime laugh harmonizes with the whistling tea kettle,
tickling the backs of his ears, her honey-sweet breath dancing
warm on his jawline like the knotted, unmade folds of her side of the bed

he hears her in the sing-song breeze of the summer afternoons,
the rustling whispers of the air’s teasing fingers tugging playfully
at the hem of her sundress, the soft slaps of her bare feet kissing
the hardwood floors he forgot to clean as she spins, spins, spins

he feels her in the glazed caress of each waning moon, sketching
the angles of her cheekbones with opalescent lines of quicksilver, that
his fingertips could not help but continually retrace in baited wonder
of the stellar artistry of her having intertwined to coexist with him

her sheets remain tangled, because they still hold the shape of
each delicate curve of her frame, and the mop always hangs dry in the
hall closet, because the ghosts of her footprints still linger on the
once-warm wood, and he cannot find it in himself to wipe them away

he almost forgets, with each break of dulled sunrise that he wakes to,
some flickering slides of his memory’s projector skipping over themselves
so that his limbs might find the will to move and his lungs might find the
will to fill themselves with oxygen before he is reminded once again

that the kitchen is empty, even when he boils enough hot water for two
and the bed has gone cold on one half, because it is too big for him now
and though it seems impossible that his heart could still manage any sort of
rhythm when it only beat for the sake of hers, he thinks it holds steady

because he knows she must still be there

  • another one shot, inspired by a combination of the cory monteith tribute episode of glee, nicholas sparks’ safe haven, and too much ice cream
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