He sat on the edge of the bed they shared for sixty-three years. In his hands, he held their wedding picture, now yellowed with age but still expressing the love they shared on that day and thousands more to come. He glanced at her vanity and dust-covered bottles filled with perfumes. Most were still full except for her favorite, which He couldn't bear to throw away, fearing he would never smell her scent again. He ran his hands across the quilt she made, feeling her presence in every stitch as another tear fell, joining countless others spilled in this room.
It's been decades since her passing, and not a single day passes that he doesn't come into this room and sit on the edge of their bed. He doesn't sleep in there anymore because he knows sleep will never come, so he wanders the halls until his memories go to sleep, and he lies his head down on the couch they sat on together, talking, maybe watching some TV but always together.
There are no words to explain a broken heart unless you've experienced one. It's a great void with no end in sight—darkness that doesn't let in the light and the never-ending times you still hear her voice, feel her touch, and smell her favorite perfume. A broken heart will remain broken until you're joined in a place where you're young, and life has just begun.
Mike 2025
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