The nights are long without you. The unbearable absence of that faint aroma of ginger you seem to exude is obvious. I seek it, but find only the smell of melting ice and wetted wood. A winter spray sheets my window and there is only one breath sound I can hear here, no diametric swoosh wedded to the rise and fall of a contented bosom. My arm falls free by my side, unencumbered by your existence, empty.
I count the pores in the ceiling tiles, wondering whether you are asleep or about in your world apart. If I could, I would make you a cup of tea. If I did, it would grow cold on the nightstand, cup full. Tonight, there will be no risk-less patter to make an un-hearable rumble through the bedroom door, indistinct except for its fervent rhythm.
Instead, there is the tick tick tick of a clock, easily killed by the removal of its battery heart. My heart keeps beating even though I wish it might stop. Even though I might wish all of the sounds that replace the sounds that are you would recede forever into darkness and silence.
I hear your voice from time to time and look around. It's an hallucination or a wishful imagining. I sigh and listen harder.