Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same.
//Warsan Shire
Immediately after, all he can feel are the tips of her fingertips on the inside of his wrist. The five light pinpricks seem hot to him, still, even though it’s been weeks since she touched him, even though her hands had always been ice cold even on sunny days, even though he thinks he’s been numb with want ever since she walked out of his little life. That one last touch is seared into his memory, that and the look on her face – the type of sadness artists carve onto roughly hewn blocks of marble: cold, faraway, not quite real. All he can smell is the hint of her perfume in the air, though she took the bottle with her as she left. He supposes that the scent of shampoo must fade from his sheets soon, but even after every wash, they still smell like her; and because they smell like her, he keeps expecting to turn around and find her lost in a book, hair in a messy ponytail.
Time passes, and he acts in an approximation of moving on. He no longer asks after her at parties, or jump every time he sees a lithe brunette with a confident stride and regal air. He does not stare mournfully at the coffee shop on 3rd and main, he does not shirk at ordering iced americanos, he does not avoid his favorite book store with the nosy owner and dusty shelves. He has rejoined life at large: drinks wine at parties without a wistful look on his face, writes without veiled metaphors of her, watches black and white films with passionless kisses without pining.
But sometimes, in his dreams, he finds her there. Or, a better description – he finds the emptiness of the places that she’s left. There are flashbacks, too bright like overexposed films – her red hat on the beach, her annotations on his hands, the fingertips curled around a coffee cup. When she speaks, her voice sounds tinny, faraway, the words jumbled, the laugh discordant. And when he opens his eyes, he can see the ashes of their love gone out falling slowly to earth, tastes the bitterness of regret and loss in his mouth, feels the burned marks on the inside of his wrist.
Navel Gazing 