They lay on the floor by the bed, rumpled, worn, and blue.
She stood and stared, tears in her eyes, eyes appraising the random curves and creases. They lay on the floor by the bed, from last night, his last night.
She had cleaned the house because she it was all she could think of to do, yet still they remained in floor by the bed.
A pile of denim left so carelessly the night before, now a relic, a shadow, a residue.
Left there at night and so they remained night after night after night, untouched.
A hollow grew in the carpet beside, where she sat and watched night after, after night, after night, hoping perhaps, although not really, that he would spring from within filling them out again, bringing warmth to them again and to her.
He was dead. He must be dead. She had said goodbye hadn’t she?
Hadn’t she?
Hadn’t she said that she loved him?
Hadn’t she?
Oh God, hadn’t she?