waiting for morning

She's right there- sitting next to me on my couch. She's laughing, and her smile reaches her eyes. She's so close, I can almost count her freckles. I reach my hand out to touch the soft, worn fabric of her blue and grey flannel shirt...

And she's gone.

I wake with a start. It's dark. She never knew this house.

No, no, no… She was right here. I could hear her. I could see her. I could smell her. She can't be gone all over again.

I jump from my bed. It's freezing- I left my window open. I close it and turn to my living room, hoping to find her on my couch...

...but it's empty.

The fog of the dream slips away and she goes with it, leaving that all too familiar empty, hollow ache within my chest.

I pull her soft, worn flannel from my closet. I clutch it tightly to my chest, breathing in her scent from the fabric. The aching grows.

I would give anything to have her here again, even in another dream. But I'm wide awake now, and I'm powerless against the wave of grief that comes crashing in around me. I thought I was past this.

Sleep isn't going to come easy.

So I pull out her old notes. I listen to her playlist. I look through her old pictures. I wear her flannel and sob into her sleeves.

I try and imagine that she's in Boone. I think of her excitement of the first snow that fell this week. Maybe she went out in it with Jesse. I wonder about her classes and what she'd tell me on the phone if she called me right now. There's so many things I wish I could talk to her about.

I almost check her Facebook, just to see if she's posted any pictures this semester. But I can't bare the reality that there would be none to find.

I take a deep breath. I pack all the memories back into their box. I bite my lip, swallow hard, and force the tears to stop.


Please morning, come quickly. I need the distraction of daybreak.