Each morning when I neglect to make my bed, I see your faded red towel folded on the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that you will eventually spend the night again.
This is a reminder that you will eventually share wine with me  again.
A reminder that you will eventually hold me, eventually swing me     around in the kitchen, eventually kiss me first.

I don't know when, and the uncertainty wells up in my eyes. I guess this is what it feels like to miss someone who is right there.
We have not reached the point of routine, which is to say that we are not dull, though I cannot say this in confidence.

Each night when I climb back into my bed, I see your faded red towel, still folded, at the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that he will eventually spend the night again, I tell myself.

One word answers. Red. A red towel reminder. Towel. When was it touched last? Tears. When was I touched last?

Like throwing in a white flag, I surrender to this sadness.