When I look up at the stars, I see you.
And it hurts.
They seem so far away,
Thousands of light years,
Millions of miles.
Untouchable.
They shine so bright,
Perfect and golden,
Burning and eternal.
Beautiful.
But only from a distance-
How are they up close?
Fading and falling?
Imperfect?
I can’t tell what I love;
Whether I love them
Or their glow from afar.
Removed.
When I look up at the stars, I see you.
And it hurts.

I've traced the pillow's edge pretending it was your back for some time now,
acting as if you'd been lying beside me this whole time.
Whether sharing a bed with you is plausible or not is still a mystery to me.
I'd always imagined you to be a very warm person,
and I'd like not to have to get more blankets every night.
Lately, though, I'm beginning to think the opposite.
Maybe the bed being cold and empty
is a proper representation of your presence after all.