The empty bedside table next to me feels like some sort of statement. “Here I am world. An adult. With two bedside tables and no one to fill the second one. This is what I chose, this 22 year old, manageable job, quiet night, empty bedside table, life.”
Not that I liked the clutter of his bedside table before. That pile of madness, books; bought and unread, letters unopened and an assortment of bits and pieces in various states of undone. Perhaps that’s all how he felt in that room though - there but chaotic and half done. We both felt that some days, I think. It was never ours.
But this place is mine. Freshly moved in with only traces of him in the empty bedside table and on the frame his mother gave me. Traces of a life built mostly together then pulled mostly apart.
The mostly part is the seeing each other still “as friends” for sex and wine and a dissection of our two and a half years. How we fought and lost and won and ultimately realised it wasn’t the hill we wanted to die fighting for.
So with the silent fight called to a truce and the constant chatter of a life together scattered to two houses here I am. Still without a bedside lamp, typing in the dark and more aware than ever of that clock beside me. Counting away, clicking fast to a life that seems ground to a halt.
pixelskylines
2087
kaledo-art
dailybridgerton
snowghoul
jbbartram-illu
gummygunk
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
