a bed so big
a room so empty
a void that you left
is slowly killing of me

hugging a pillow during my sleep pretending it was you, was the loneliest thing that i’ve ever done; constantly wishing how nice it is if it were your hands that i was holding

but no,

my fist clenched the bedsheets in the most distressing way possible; to think that i got used to waking up facing the cold wall pretending it was you made me contemplate nonstop:

what if someday i got accustomed to the coldness and the silence so well, that i couldn’t take the heat and the hitch between each of your breath?