Member-only story
The Writer’s Girlfriend
The magic of you is gone.
I dream in colors of what we once were.
The rouge of your lips, a sensuous Cupid’s bow that opened to a teasing tongue. Your hands skimming down my back, ever so light, every touch electric with meaning. Your waist, my arms curled around you with my right ear pressed to your soft belly.
We were supposed to last a lifetime — but where did you go? Somewhere along the way I let go of your hand. And when I tried to reach back for you, there was nothing to grasp.
I miss you most in the empty spaces where you once lingered.
The bedroom I turned into a small library feels hollow now without you curled into one of the armchairs, a hardback resting between your palms, your eyes a dance as they trotted across every letter and savored each burst of wit or whimsy. The kitchen remains without laughter, without brightness, without you smiling before you sipped the coffee I had made just for you. Even my bedroom feels alien and wrong because you should be waiting against the pillows every night, your arms open to receive and welcome me to a land only we could create for ourselves.
We were so much more when we were together — and now I feel like an incomplete puzzle with so many pieces missing.
