The Empty Bed
by Rachelle Mathis

There are things that I could tell you.

The way your skin felt under my hands. How easily my flesh bruises from a grip too tight.

But when you went away, all I could do was trace maps of India and dream. Though you were only going to California.

I could tell you about the steady click of heels on tile, as I wait in the straight backed chair to see the doctor.
How it reminds me of your laugh, but there isn’t much to laugh about now and instead it seems unnatural compared to the beat beat beat of my heart.

Pale Blue Eyes makes me think of you, of cranberry and vodka and a deck of playing cards with too many jokers.

I could tell you how much I miss you. How my body folds and bends to form to your phantom in the night.
But you’re gone. Not dead, but just the same.

I lay in my empty bed and pray.

Copyright 2024 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.