Tonight

I hear the wind brushing against the trees outside. I think of you. The TV's on, though barely audible, more of a habit than on purpose; an ill attempt to block out where my mind really wants to go. My pillow's already warm -- time to flip it over. Been lying here a while -- too tired to get up, too restless to stay put. Where do I go from here? I can't bring myself to lie on the other side of the bed -- "your" side of the bed. Besides, it's too cold over there and the sheets are still tucked in. I like to keep it that way. It somehow makes the bed seem smaller, less empty, not so much of a reminder that there's something missing -- that you're missing.

My eyes are half closed, I start to hear noises and creaks - eyes fly open. Those are the things I used to send you up to check on. The things you used to assure me were "nothing dear" and "go back to sleep," yet I insisted you check -- and they were nothing. Maybe that's why I don't bother to get up out of bed now to check, because they usually are nothing -- you were right.

And I must admit, you were right about a lot of things. I'm sure I must have driven you crazy, all my worrying, all my nagging, my quirky habits. (Quirkiness runs in my family, I've come to notice). I wish I could say those have changed. Wish I could lure you back with a promise that I will never again be the "chalkboard under you nails--" never again talk your ear off about everything under the sun as you're trying to drift off to sleep. Or I will not leave unopened piles of mail lying around the house, or turn your socks pink because I threw in just that one red shirt and forgot to start up the dryer. And I will never again file my nails during our movie nights on the couch; no wonder you often fell asleep halfway through the movie.

Tonight, I'm left alone with that person. That person I've come to realize is not so bad, quirkiness, annoying habits and all, and I realize, it's not so bad to sleep alone -- I have the covers all to myself.