You. You're there. Everywhere.
I close my eyes, and I see your face. I look in the mirror, and I see you behind me, arms holding me tight. You're in the background of every painting and picture, and you're the faceless stranger on every street and corner.
I look up from my desk, thinking I hear your footsteps coming towards me. Not you, but the secretary, the guy down the hall, the courier, the woman in the sexy short skirt and heels that sound nothing like your footfalls. But I'm fooled, every time.
I try to sleep, and I wake up because you've turned over in your slumber, but the bed is empty, not even a warm spot to mark your presence. I can feel your hands on me, I shiver with pleasure... and it's a memory.
I don't know if it's because I miss you so, or because I know that I'll never have you again. Whether it's you or just the thought that you're gone.
Christ, we were finished. I left you behind, and... I wish I hadn't. I could have been there, supported you, stopped everything from going wrong.
But that's what I'd been doing, and it didn't get any better. You didn't get any better. I tried, and I couldn't do it. But now, watching your mother cry, I'll never forgive myself for not trying. For not trying again. I should have done more. Hindsight is perfect, and I know that this never would have happened if I'd stayed, if I'd helped.
It's too late, and all I can do is see you in everything. You consumed my life when I was trying to help; nothing worked. And now memories plague me with guilt. Nothing is possible without you, because you won't let it be. Because I won't let it be.
It's not even that: it's that I keep waking up feeling your breath on my neck only to realize, once again, that I'll never feel it again.