You’re gone, but your clothes are still here. This bed is far too big for just me and it smells just like you. The cabinets are half-filled with all your favorite foods; there’s no way I could ever eat that much peanut butter by myself. This apartment isn’t the same without you. You’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
Do you remember when we met? In that same hospital of all places. Cancer brought us together and tore us apart. How ironic. You said you loved me with no makeup on and chemotherapy drugs dripping into my veins. You were sweet to humor me than. I loved the will you had to survive and your skin covered in tattoos. But now you’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
I met this guy at a bar last night. He asked if I was single and I didn’t know what to say. He bought me a beer I didn’t like and when he noticed, he switched his drink for mine. I cried because you used to do that all the time. I ran outside and he followed me. He kissed me, without asking what was wrong, and walked me back to the L train. I’m sorry I kissed him back. Please don’t be mad at me. I fell asleep on the floor of your closet when I got home and covered myself in your clothes. You’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
I’m sorry for all the time I got mad because you forgot to turn the TV off before you left for work or take the garbage out on Thursdays. I would take the garbage out a million times if it could bring you back. We had so many stupid fights in that tiny Queens apartment. I found you on the floor in that kitchen, balled up like an infant, when you found out the cancer was back. I know you didn’t want me to see you like that; in three years, I never had. You were so helpless and I felt my heart hurting with yours in that moment. You’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
I wore your favorite dress to your funeral. It was purple and slutty and if you were there, I know you would’ve reminded me of that. I covered myself in all the things you had bought me over the years. I’m sorry I couldn’t look at you like that. I resorted to gluing my eyes to the pictures of us that still fill my phone’s camera roll. I don’t know if deleting them will make this better or worse for me. You’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
The day I lost you, I was at work, too busy to be bothered with my phone. You texted me a picture of our bed, your side of the bed, and it was neatly made and empty. Your text message following that said: “don’t even think about hogging my side of the bed when I’m gone. I love you Veronica. Forever my pretty bird.”
You’re gone and I don’t know what to do.
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