'The bedsheets refuse to smoothen the creases you've left in them. I sleep in the hollow of your wake. I'll try my best to not wash the sheets until your smell is stale and rotting and I just can't take it anymore, ok? I understand, you know. I get your weird hair and the fact that you have to bend down to listen to me speak. What I don't understand though, is the different ways in which we hold each others' hearts. I hold yours like a grenade, my soul is ready to throw it as far away from me as possible. And you hold mine, like one holds a newborn baby's head.
It's really stupid, you know. I've been making your shape out of the infinite pillows we have and sometimes I roll over to kiss you mid-dream, but all I end up with is feathers in my mouth and nose. Funny, right? I knew you'd find it funny. I don't know why I keep bringing up all this bed talk. I mean, really, it's silly. Mostly because you always wanted one, but then you left, and now I don't need one but I get up sometimes (mid-dream of course) and think about how right you were. This bed is too small for me alone.
You remember that one day you were pointing your finger at me? (Playfully of course). And you said you could never understand how quickly my facial expressions changed, how if someone didn't understand my words, they would understand the contorts of my face. Well, darling, now that you're gone, I'll tell you exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking 'well here's a good man who irons his own clothes and feeds the kittens and kisses my shoulder blades (mid-dream), and I've done nothing but hurt him. It made me sad for a day like this. When you'd be gone and I've have a plethora of honesty bundled up inside like knots and I'd write letters addressed to nowhere hoping they'd reach you. I waited for this day, darling, and here it is. Here I am, there you are, where are we?
I love you'
she writes to him furiously, even though he is dead.