Confession: The Weight of an Empty Bed

Loneliness is heavy, but so is the memory of someone who no longer lies beside you.

The bed is too big now.
Too empty.
Too quiet.

I still sleep on my side—
the side closest to where you used to be,
as if keeping your space empty
might make you return.

But you won't.
And the bed remains half-empty,
half-full of nothing but memory.

I remember the way you'd curl against me,
the warmth of your back against my chest,
the rhythm of your breathing
lulling me into sleep.

I remember the way you'd steal the covers,
the way you'd shift in your dreams,
the way you'd wake me with a gentle touch
just to know I was there.

Now I wake alone,
to silence,
to cold sheets,
to the weight of your absence.

The bed feels heavier now
than when you were in it.
The mattress remembers your shape,
the pillow still holds your scent,
the sheets still remember your warmth.

But you're gone.
And the bed is just a bed again—
not a shared space,
not a sanctuary,
just a place where I sleep alone.

Sometimes I still reach for you in the dark,
my hand finding only empty space,
my fingers touching only cold sheets,
my heart remembering what used to be.

The weight of an empty bed
is the weight of what's missing.
It's the weight of lost love,
of broken dreams,
of a future that will never be.

So here's my confession:
I sleep on my side,
keeping your space empty,
pretending you might come back,
knowing you never will.

The weight of an empty bed
is the heaviest thing I carry.