Everything reminds me of her.
I wake up and she's not there beside me. I would always wake up before her and watch her sleep.
I go take a shower and she's not there with me. Her back isn't there for me to wash, and she's not there to wash mine.
I get dressed and I put on the cologne that she bought me for Christmas.
I get in my car to drive to work and she's not there. She used to hold my hand that would rest on her thigh.
I drive past the restaurant with the funny name that used to make her laugh.
I arrive at work; a hotel that she and I stayed at together. I get in the elevator and she's not there to kiss me as soon as the doors close.
I go get a sandwich for lunch and I ask for tomatoes. She hated tomatoes.
After work I go out to a restaurant with friends. We would always order two entrées and share them both. I feel so limited having to choose just one.
I go home and watch the TV shows that she and I used to watch together. I wonder if she's seen this episode.
I go to bed and she's not there. I can't kiss her, make love to her.
But I don't miss her; I miss who I thought she was.
But I don't miss her; I miss who I thought she was.
Indeed.
Musky |2 pointswritten 3 months ago ago
Everything reminds me of her.