She'd make tea and we'd fall asleep to jazz and dream about being better. I had a name for her I never shared and I hoped she had the same, a name for me, something she called me when it was only her around. There wasn't a bet I lost or an argument I ventured where I wasn't happy she was there. Still, you can always be better.
Nights were long, she went away just like the song and I started talking to myself. It would be okay, it would be fine, things would get back to normal. I was having a hard time grasping normal, any version of it. When things are lost you replace them, sometimes you have to replace them with whatever's around. Over time it might erode into a resemblance, but it's never quite the same.
Communication is the key. I said I would never stop talking when she got back. Listening and sharing and all the things in hindsight. Back we'd go to sun-dipped mornings, our creature comforts, newspaper smudges and the future. She would talk about the future all day and I would listen.
Dreaming ceased. They say you dream every night, you just don't remember. I was forgetting dreams before they started, faces and voices were slipping. My subconscious was telling me something, shaking its head, filling in the gaps with larger gaps. Do you have any idea the sound of nothing filling nothing? It's a word I can't describe. I can feel it, I always will, but I'll never know what it's called.
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