I forget how cold my hands feel when she isn’t holding one of them. During evenings in the house I wear more layers, because we don’t hold each other anymore, watching shit television. I curl up in my musty, unwashed hoodie. Her beige foundation is still smeared on the shoulder.
She once told me how we are all made from the materials that exploded from the Big Bang. We are all stardust. You know the sort of thing. She stood at the side of the road, trying to balance a snowflake on her nose. I rolled my dry eyes. Now I dab them when they often water.
Since she left, I notice things about my house that I didn’t before. I look into the corners more than I used to. I see cobwebs and little mountains of dust. I look up and down but never around. I lay on the floor until my back spasms.
So I go for a walk instead with a head full of music. As the song goes; we are more alone than we have ever been. But I’m not alone. I’m made from the same stuff that built Jupiter. She said so. I’m related to that fence, those trees, even the leather in the boots I wear. At my feet the path disappears into the beach, so many sand grains thrown together and apart by the sea. So I bend down, pick up a handful of stars, and throw them up into the icy breeze.