  As I lay here with the lights off, I feel a small amount of familiarity. I lay here on the bed, where we've had so many late night conversations about everything we never thought we could share with anyone, and I feel a little bit at home. I wrap myself in your bed sheets, hoping that maybe - just maybe - I'll reach out and find you laying next to me, but I only find emptiness in the darkness. The sheets are usually warm, heated by your body, but now I feel them cool against my chest, scratching in an awkard way that I have never noticed before.
Thoughts fill my head about all the things we've done. In the darkness, I know I am surrounded by pictures of you, us and of myself. I can feel them near me, and as my eyes adjust to the dark, I can see vague outlines of us in days past, days that we will never see again. I still believe that we are out there somewhere, still living those days, and that moments never cease to exist, but we merely move through time, as though it were a big bowl of fluid or strawberry gelatin. I ponder these and many other non-important thing. All while lying alone in your bedsheets. 
