Too Quiet in Texas

Night falls quietly, like the blades of a ceiling fan heard whispering in the dark, pitch black ‘cept for the glow of neon from the bar outside the window, creeping in between the blinds. It’s so quiet that you can count each tick of the Timex resting on the table beside the bed. The bed itself too quiet. The last of her scent barely noticeable on the pillow, but you keep it close all the same, hanging on to whatever lingering memory you can, never realizing just how empty you could feel. The familiar comforts just make you feel worse, remind you just how alone you are, and while they call you out to play, out to enjoy a socialized distraction, you’d rather be alone with the thought of her haunting your heart instead of being with the crowd and quieting your mind. The only laughter you want to hear is hers. The only smile you want to see is hers. The only hands you want to feel are hers. And so you wait until her return, counting the holes in the ceiling and the rotation of the fan blades. Hoping that sleep will soon hit you hard enough to pass out before your desire to drop everything and get in the car gets the best of you.