Orange numbers glow out into the solid black room. They burn holes inside of me, reminding me why I can’t sleep.
I miss you tonight. And I haven’t missed you in what feels like a million light years. But I miss you tonight.
I could really use a hand to hold. Or a shoulder to cry on. I could really use the kind of pep talk only you could give. I could really use the sound of your voice soothing me, you’ll be alright.
Instead, the fan above me whirls around indefinitely and crickets chirp outside my bedroom window and I am awake.
I remember the night we sat outside together at the table, and we talked about the reasons that I was, at the time, hurting someone I love. And you made a point – like you always did – that I agreed with. But it still felt sad and so I climbed into your lap and laid my head down on your shoulder; I wrapped my arms around your neck and curled up there. And it felt better, I felt better…until you had to go.
Each orange number that I see on the clock tonight reminds me of all the minutes, hours, days I won’t find comfort in you.