I could taste it on your lips each time you kissed me good morning the past six weeks.
That taste. I know it so well.
It’s a perfect blend of loneliness, sorrow and dashed hopes.
I’ve tasted it so many times, it’s now so familiar. Like an old friend that comes to visit once in a while.
You carried that taste and you didn’t even know.
I could see it on your troubled face as you slept next to me; even in your sleep I felt you traveling miles away, away from me.
I could feel you leaving even as you held me tight to stop me from crying.
You couldn’t understand why I was crying but I knew why.
“You’re leaving”, I said to you.
You reassured me that you weren’t. You said you would stay.
You tried to convince me that you loved me; that my name was the only taste on your lips and my love, the only fire that engulfed your soul.
That you’d be here forever.
But I knew better.
I mourned your departure even before you left; my weary heart healed even before you broke it.
So this morning, when I found a goodbye note on the pillow where your head should have been,…
I felt nothing.