It's not Piping Hot, but this was floating around my brain…
I own no one
There are still some nights so lonely that I wander this house, searching for something that I know isn't there. I wake up some mornings, confused as to why you aren't in my bed, and then the answer crushes me like a tidal wave. I march through my days, praying for the night, where no one else is there to see the sunken eyes, and the fragile rein I keep on my feelings. God knows how often all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry. But that wouldn't make you proud. You would want me to carry on, move forward. I can almost hear you telling me to forget you, but I can't. I don't want to. Forgetting you means forgetting all the happiness we had together, all our stupid fights, inside jokes, and the way you smiled at me like I was precious. Now people smile at me out of pity, they look at me like I'm going to break. They don't understand that without you, I'm already broken. You made me into a shadow the day that I had to lower you into the ground. When they handed me that folded up flag I knew, for the first time in forever, that you weren't coming back to me. That night was the worst. I slept in your t-shirt, one that smelled of you. Well, I tried to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I would see another memory of us. And it hurt. It burned like hellfire. I finally dosed off around 4am, and when I woke up to your alarm at 6:30, I was angry. I wondered why you hadn't turned it off like always. Then it hit me, fresh knowledge. I spent the rest of the morning in the bathroom, throwing up bile because I hadn't eaten since I took that phone call. The others wanted to comfort me, surround me, so that we could all mourn together. I didn't want anyone's comfort but your own. I wanted your arms around me, your hands in mine. But those were things that I would never ever feel again. Each time some other person tried to touch me it was like pouring salt in that wound. I wondered briefly if anyone would ever be able to touch me again without that feeling of being whipped. So far, the answer has been no. So, here I sit, another lonely night. I'm debating getting up for a glass of water. Maybe something stronger. I know you would be angry though if I got up at 4:30 in the morning and poured myself a glass of whiskey. That thought has stopped me most of the other nights that I've sat up, waiting for a door to open, a lock to click, a weight to dip your side of the bed. We slept together for so long that even now, when I know you aren't coming back, your absence from the bed confuses me. One of my friends told me that one day, I'll be able to get up without wondering where you are. I won't feel that fresh bit of sorrow upon waking. I wonder if that's true. I guess I'll have to make it through one night without thinking of you first. And good luck with that.