new year, new anxiety... wait, no

***

Eddie

There is an old, unwashed ashtray next to me on the couch, full to the brim, and I can only think of the way you would make me smoke outside.

The pack of cigarettes next to it is all crumpled to hell from me squeezing it earlier and I remember how you used to gently unwrap my fingers and hold my hands when I would clench my fists from anxiety.

The only light in the room comes from the TV and it reminds me of how dark your bedroom was until they installed that streetlight outside your window.

The coffee table in front of me is empty, with a layer of dust, and I remember the moment I left.

There is an annoying jingle playing through an ad and I reminisce about you humming stupid songs in the morning while making breakfast.

The old chair next to the couch creaks and I think of when your lawn chair broke when you sat on it that time, your face caught in sudden, harmless panic.

I twist the rings around my fingers and I remember how lovingly you used to take them off for me every night before bed when I couldn't be bothered.

I feel the rough fabric of my t-shirt when I twist to put out my cigarette and I can almost feel how soft my favorite sweater of yours would feel against my skin.

There is a stale, old smell in this room and if I close my eyes I can almost imagine the chill your bedroom was enveloped in every morning when you would open the windows to let fresh air in.

I move my palms on the couch and they bump an old magazine and I am reminded of what I wrote in the note I left you before I closed the door behind me - "I love you, always."

I am so sorry, baby. I'm coming home.