I can't sleep.

Not when I think of you.

I won't sleep

This bed feels too big and empty now. Which is funny, in a way. I think about the first time you slept over: 6 months into our relationship, I had invited you to my place for a meal, and we lost track of time. I offered to let you stay the night, the words slipped out of my mouth before I realized I only had one bed. You agreed and slipped in before I could blink. I hid in the bathroom for about ten minutes before coming back out. I was so nervous, until I saw that you took up 3/4ths of my bed. I complained you were hogging the bed. Back then I didn't care about the space on my bed. Now I complain it's too big. I still only take about a fourth of it. I should invest in a smaller bed.

I still can't sleep.

I think about your warmth, not just who you were as a person, but your literal warmth. You were like this giant space heater. It was annoying in the summer when you slipped over to spend the night more. But, even then, I was always so cold. I guess it was okay. Fine, it was nice. Now, I've taken up trying to use electric blankets wrapped around me. But, it's not the same. It's a different kind of warmth and I hate it. I hate it because it's not you.

I can close my eyes, but can't sleep.

If I stand up and wander around I'll end up in the kitchen. I make sure to keep myself busy so I don't. It was an old habit, I'd wander and end up in the kitchen. I always told you it was to survey the damage to did to my kitchen, sorry our kitchen. Well now, I guess it's just mine again. To tell the truth, I didn't care about the spilled flour or the messy countertops. I didn't even question why or how there was dough on the ceiling. No. All I could think about, those two years in was how adorable you looked with flour on your face and in your hair, and how those apple turnovers smelt amazing. Now, I can't stop thinking about you there either. I've been avoiding standing there. I've ordered take out for weeks now just to avoid going in there. There are pastries that you made weeks ago. Apple turnovers. I should throw them out, but I can't bring myself to go into the kitchen.

Because when I close my eyes, I can't help but think of you.

You're gone. But it doesn't feel right. I feel like I'll wake up and everything will be okay. But I know I'm only lying to myself.

I can't sleep.

You're not dead. Our story did not end bitter sweetly. I was not your last love. There is no grave for me to visit and talk to. No one will say our love was cut short. Because. You never died.

You just moved on.

And because of that, I can't sleep and it feels like I never will.