Why is it that the empty spot in my bed suddenly feels so cold when it was never warm to begin with?
He never laid with me after long days, played with the ends of my hair, or kissed behind my ear so even in my sleep I would know he was there.
Why is it that I find myself wanting to use such affectionate titles when calling out to him, when I never had the right to in the first place?
He never slips his fingers through mine when walking back to the car, and neither do I absentmindedly reach over the middle console to hold his free one whilst driving home.

Yet, he never rejects my head laid in his lap after long nights, watching re-runs of a TV show neither of us were really paying attention to.
He never tells me to quit running my shaky fingers through his hair, neither do I wish him away when the sleepy look in his eyes tells me he wants nothing but my company.
And never have I ever scolded him for telling me sweet things when I needed to hear them the most.

The moments we spent under the Autumn leaves are long forgotten, like old Polaroids hidden beneath old gum wrappers and one too many distractions. Only pulled out when in need of feeling something, something to remind you that what you felt was real, that you weren't crazy.

I will not deny that I miss him, his touch. I will not deny that I fell in love with the person that he was that Fall.

However, I will deny any thoughts of him not needing me, because I desperately need him, and I like to imagine a place where we both somehow need each other.