Tonight I can write only the saddest lines, mainly because my glass holds the remnants of the last bottle of wine that sat in my rack. I can write for example of how the world seems to make no sense without you in it to hold me and how the blue skies have only been filled with a dreary grey since the last time I really felt freedom.
I can write about how my face falls as I watch you say goodbye or lie awake for hours on nights that you fall asleep at the foot of your bed, wasted lips on cold bottle tops filled with sticky hops and malt. My hands can only form the words that show how much I envy the brow of your pillow that dares to wriggle free from your arms, and the passing glares of mirror that get to absorb your almost smiles.
Tonight I sit, alone with the scent of denial and all the withering thoughts that tug at my sanity, and whisper your name into my brain. Sounds that only I can hear, images only I can see and ideas that cannot be touched by mortal hands.
Tonight I can only think of the saddest things because I am here and you are nowhere near.