Emptylonelycold

This bed has become an arctic waste, stretched out before me, a barren frozen tundra. Nothing stirs here, nothing moves. It is empty and cold, and lonely, so so lonely, without you here to fill its space. I'm here left dying in the cold, seeing vague shadows of you upon the sheets, still lingering in the fading light of your warm amber glow.

The sheets move against each other when I roll over, whispering soft promises of your return, sounding like the hot, dry breeze of your breath against my neck, tickling at that small spot just near my shoulder. The smell of you still lingers between these sheets. The feel of your warmth has faded with your departure, but I still can imagine the feel of your body stretched out beside mine.

I can still imagine the intimacy of hands and bodies pulled close together, intertwined in a sense both physical and metaphysical to the point where the definition of reality blurs and I can no longer see simply you and myself, simply your hands and my hands, your skin and my skin. I feel so hollowed out without you here, without that sensation of being freely bound to a whole, yet completely and utterly of myself at the same time. I miss my companion, and this empty bed leaves me feeling more acutely alone every night. It leaves me feeling the cold in the air with a more definite bite, until all I crave is the hot desert of your skin, and the boiling sea of your beautiful eyes.