Dream.
About nothing.
That’s about it.
About all I did.
After you left, I died.
I don’t mean physically, of course.
I mean my heart – my soul – died.
My mind became a blank sheet of paper.
I lay in bed and I dreamed empty thoughts.
Waiting for the day you would come back to me.
When you’d fill up my blank pages, my empty life, again.
But I was just now beginning to understand that you never would return.
And I was learning, to my dismay, that even my own heart could heal.