Him

His lips sent electric currents
through my veins
directly to my heart,
the way the tab of acid
on his tongue did to him.

The scent of him
was like listening to the ocean
while drifting into a deep sleep
after a year of early morning alarms
and late nights at the office.

His arms holding me close
were like returning to my childhood bedroom,
all my teddy bears surrounding me
in a hug that could only be described
as home.

But his words stopped matching his thoughts,
so my heart stopped matching my head.

I started to lay awake for hours,
desperate to find his scent
on some article of clothing
I had carelessly thrown to the side.

I began arranging my pillows
around me like his arms used to be,
but they never quite mastered
the feeling of home
like his limbs entangled with mine did.

Eventually,
I stopped sleeping in my bed
because laying down without him
felt like a night without stars,
hopeless and terrifying.

Laying awake,
sitting among clothes
that his scent no longer lingers on,
holding onto the body
he was suppose to hold,
I cry.

The tears trace his name down the cheeks he once kissed.
They don't taste nearly as sweet on my lips as his lips did.
But it's all he left me with.