Night. New York.
He sits at the edge of the bed; his feet crossed, his arms propped on the sides, supporting him. His head is bent. He rubs his fingers, tracing the ink stains. Those never wash away.
His palm sweeps across to her side of the bed. It’s cold and clean. The air is dull, stagnant. The stillness bothers him. He hasn’t smelled perfume in months. He misses the sound her dress would make as she would move around the house, singing her sentences…
He leans back instinctively, eyes closed, eyebrows arched. As he looks up, his shoulders tense.
Overwhelming nostalgia can be fatal.
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."