The Empty Side of the Bed

The sheets are cold where you once lay,

I reach, but you’ve drifted far away.

Your pillow sits untouched, still round,

A hollow echo of love unbound.

The clock ticks slow, the night runs deep,

I whisper your name, then try to sleep.

I turn to face where you should be,

But only silence lies with me.

The scent of you still haunts the air,

A tender ghost, forever there.

Your shirt hangs still behind the door,

A soft reminder of before.

I trace the lines where you would rest,

My fingers tremble on your chest—

Or where it used to rise and fall,

Now just a memory, that’s all.

Each night I fight the aching truth,

That love once fierce has lost its youth.

Not in anger, not in flame,

But in quiet ways we failed to name.

No single word, no final fight,

Just colder mornings, longer nights.

We drifted slowly, like the tide,

Pulled apart by time and pride.

I wonder now if you reach too,

In some strange bed, for something true.

Or if you sleep without regret,

Or if you simply just forget.

I lie awake and face the ache

Of what we built and let it break.

The quiet we both came to dread

Now lives on the empty side of the bed.

And still I wait, though time has passed,

For something soft, some breath, at last.

But night goes on, and dreams mislead—

I’m holding on to what I need.

Your absence weighs where warmth once spread—

Beside me, on the empty side of the bed