“You are the love of my life.”


So many nites – really more often than not – over the course of almost six years, Bob would snuggle with me in bed and tell me: “You are never going to get rid of me.”
“We were meant to be together forever.”
He would plead with me: “Please don’t ever leave me.” “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

It just doesn’t make sense.
He is there, in Queens – or Salem – or wherever they are off to, with her. And I am here.
I sleep in the bed that we shared. The frame was mine,  the mattress set his.
Part of me wishes I had the money to get a new set, the other part of me wants to cling to it as long as I am able.

I still sleep on “my” side.
For a very long time, I hoped that when I reached over, he’d somehow miraculously have appeared. I’d wish that it was him snoring, not his cat.

I didn’t use his closet or dresser or medicine cabinet  for months . . .

What happened to us?
“Forever” was far too short of a time.
I never would have left him.
He’d say that fate brought us together and we were soulmates. He had never been so happy and that he loved his life – our life.

I asked him after we broke up why he said all those things.
His reply?
“I never said anything I didn’t mean. ”

Then why the hell aren’t you here???

So. Fucking. Ridiculous.


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