I look up at the three bright stars of Orion’s belt as I stand outside in the front yard. I can hear people talking and laughing in the kitchen, but somehow, it’s comforting to be alone.
Orion always seemed to me like a lonely winter constellation. Lines drawn between stars in sharp bright isolation.
I stuff my hands deeper into my mittens, deeper into the large pockets of my jacket. My breath condenses into a small cloud of white fog.
It’s so cold.
Looking up at Orion’s belt – maybe the most recognizable constellation in the winter night sky – I am somehow reminded of the steely blueness of your eyes. Deep. All that cold, deep space.
And empty is what I feel. Robbed, maybe.
A part of me hates you. And another part of me feels guilty for hating you. You know, I never got a chance to say goodbye, and maybe that’s what I hate the most.
All this missing you. It makes me empty.
And the lightyears between my front driveway and Orion, well, that’s the shape of the emptiness.