I always slept on my left side and you on your right and when it was late and we had finished our daily tales, I would feel your breathing on my cheek. It would always reach a certain soft cadence and I would know you were dreaming then.
Now I sleep on my right side, so the last evening glimpse and the first grey morning scenes are the same, a faceless beige wall, flaking paint, crumbling brick.
I 've turned away from the unused pillow, away from the undisturbed sheets, each morning so rigid, cold and clean.
Youre not on your side of the bed anymore; instead youve been replaced,
by all of Gods hate.
Every day I awake now, just a little less alive.