The Southern Gentleman left early yesterday morning.
Now the cottage is quiet.
The sound of his laugh no longer fills the crisp cold air.
The crooning of his voice has ceased to envelope me.
He isn't stretched out on the couch, just a small touch away.
Nor is he next to me in bed; his hand holding mine as we slept.
His leaving is always like this.
I feel like a piece of me has been ripped out.
I miss him terribly.