It doesn’t hit me as I wake up curled against you on our last morning together. It doesn’t hit me as I crack an egg against the frying pan for breakfast. It doesn’t hit me as we load your bags into the car, or even as you disappear behind the double doors labelled departures.
I reminisce, as I pick up after our week of fun: a stray sock in the corner, a forgotten pair of boxers that will increase your future laundry trips and the picture frame of you and I that is lodged in the space between the wall and my bed (from when you knocked it off mid-stretch).
A week later, as I walk past a bookstore, I decide to walk in, although my library is filled with volumes that I am yet to lay a finger on. Almost magically, I come upon my favourite novel; the one I meant to pass along to you. The void around consumes me, as I realize you’re on the other side of the black mirror in my pocket, and a part of me withers under the weight of adulthood.
It hits me with the weight of unshared movie popcorn, solo shopping trips and endless meals for one.