I sleep on your side of the bed every night now, ever since it’s been set here. Out of place and always empty, for months I’ve slept here. Some nights crying myself to sleep, most nights thinking about you, curled up here without you. Every, every, every morning I wake and think about you. How you should be here laying where I am, breathing quietly, away in a world while your body drifts here next to me. This is love, and love does not stop. All I have is love for you and it does not stop. It will not, not ever. Not now, five months later, not five years or five decades from now will my love be less. I knew it then and I know it now. It’ll always be your side of the bed.