It’s nothing, I tell myself.
It’s nothing when I look into crowds and I think I see your shoulder. Nothing at all, when a voice drains my blood to my feet in cacophony, and I want to know who it belongs to. No one really, when I taste a different salt and am reminded of your neck, your wrist.
But then I stay up in the darkness and count the nothings that have passed me today, yesterday, every day before that. Nothings that can’t be seen but add up to a weight that slows my pace and makes breathing a task I’d rather give up. I see the nothings that surround me- goosebumps, deja vu, a tune, a shape, a joke. But that’s what I feel like when I close my eyes and feel across the cold sheet and don’t feel you. A joke.
It’s not that the sheet is cold. It doesn’t have the warmth of your skin, the pressure of our love, the release of your touch. I feel nothing, and nothing feels cold.