(no subject)
He hasn't done it in a handful of years, four of five maybe, perhaps more. Jack wakes up well before his alarm sounds and reaches for him. He hasn't been there, next to him, for years, but his presence lingers and Jack, in the groggy inbetween, can swear the warmth on the wrinkled sheet, on the empty side of the bed, is not from the early-morning sun pushing shyly through half-pulled curtains.
A few boyfriends and disappointing prospects have occupied the space next to him since. The sharp edges of the pain have dulled but still sting.
He turns over and brings the comforter further up his shoulder, shivering and wide awake, now. He watches the branches of the tree outside paint moving shadows on the walls, drum slithering rhythms against the window. In the quiet of morning, Jack can imagine a breath, a body, inky hair tangled on linen.
Jack smiles wistfully and makes himself forget. Until next time.
A few boyfriends and disappointing prospects have occupied the space next to him since. The sharp edges of the pain have dulled but still sting.
He turns over and brings the comforter further up his shoulder, shivering and wide awake, now. He watches the branches of the tree outside paint moving shadows on the walls, drum slithering rhythms against the window. In the quiet of morning, Jack can imagine a breath, a body, inky hair tangled on linen.
Jack smiles wistfully and makes himself forget. Until next time.