A memory. A day. A perfect day. Heavy snow drifting down upon us. Her and me.
Individual flakes dancing together in the icy breeze, creating a smooth blanket around us. Individual flakes, deliberately taunting me, teasing me; landing in her hair, on her nose, her eyelashes, making her eyelids flutter until they melted away. Purposefully landing on her lips. Her tongue, pink, pointed, delicate: tenderly licking away the morsels of snow that land there so temptingly.
Our footsteps, a pattern in the snow behind us. Moving as one. Our hands, entwined by our sides, fit so perfectly. Fate.
Destiny.
Her cheeks, flushed in the cool breeze. The colour of rose petals. Beautiful. Then her arm around my waist, and mine around her shoulders, being held together inside my coat. We fit. Her head like a missing piece joins with my neck and fits resting there flawlessly. We match.
A single flake lands on her nose. The temptation is too great. I kiss it away. Then a sound, a sound more beautiful than anything, more beautiful than the sea of pristine whiteness that surrounds us, laughter, the sound of a bell tinkling in the emptiness, the laughter is hers. She is laughing. She is happy.
Then it fades. My day darkens. IT was only a memory.
It was just a dream.
I wake. I frown. I gaze contemplatively at the empty space beside me. The space where she should be. No indent, no evidence that she was ever there. Nothing. The room around me. Dark, empty. Like my life. Without her. I sigh. Another meaningless day. Another day alone.
Outside it is light. Birds sing joyously, the opposite of what I feel. The sun shines, my day is grey. Still I frown. Never happy unless she is there. The bed, the room around me is untidy, a mess like my life. She used to tidy it. She couldn't stand mess. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I would tell her. She would smile and throw a pillow at me, I would jump over the bed, rugby tackle her onto it and kiss her, her arms clinging to me, pulling me towards her. More memories. Fantasies. Not real. Not anymore.
The house around me whispers. I long for her voice. Her, rattling around these empty rooms. Her cooking in the kitchen, bacon, eggs, anything. I long for her. In my arms, in my life, anywhere. Anywhere but just in my head.
The sofa I sit on is cold, unloved, unused. We would sit here in front of the television, my arms around her, my head in her lap, her head on my shoulder. Now that is gone. It is uncomfortable without her. There is a lump. I move around and lift the cushion. A jumper. Soft, pale blue. It belongs to her. I inhale her fragrance deeply; there are still traces of her. My eyes glaze over. My vision blurs. I clutch the jumper to myself. My only remaining connection to her.
She is gone.
I let her go.
It's my fault.