Sleeping with a fridge

It is funny somehow, I know you will hardly be able to swallow the truth of the matter. But I will come right out and say it. The nights are cold a bit like death. It's like sleeping with a fridge, a second hand one that no body wants or will tolerate any longer. The edges are hard and difficult to hold. The handle is particularly tricky. You of all people know how much I can't bare the cold. The insides are empty and the door is left ajar like my skin has peeled away and my body has shrivelled up and left out to dry, like your old paintings you no longer care for. You are difficult to grasp and keep falling in between my fingers into the spaces where words fail us. We are left stuck inside the cracks. The past is creeping up on me again like the coldness of the dawn and the flickering and buzz of the fridge is calling out to you. The sounds are getting louder as each minute passes us by and there are less and less things to say. It becomes a promise that remains stuck inside. I never wanted it to turn out like this but here we are. The lines in between where I end and you begin is a vast cavern and everything between us is hidden under neath the sheets so no one can see. The truth never fails to make a tear come to my eye. Your face looks sadder as each day passes. Who would have known it would turn out like this, the sadness returns to haunt you like a shadow covering your heart. And then you vanish and are no where to be found. No goodbye note or thank you letter. Just emptiness in the spaces in which you used to belong.