I turn on my side, as I go to sleep, and I see that empty space beside me. I place my hand on the mattress where you used to be. I feel your absent touch on my skin. I finger the bedsheet and think of you lying there. Like a safety blanket. As I fall asleep. With a tip of one finger touching you. Re-assuring myself that you were there. But no more.
When I get up in the morning, I look over expecting to see you. In my sleep with my eyes closed, I reach out to you. And then in a flash I remember. You are gone.
I remember how you looked. How you were there in the light and in the dark. In good times and bad. Now when I walk, I feel like a part of me is missing. My hand searches the air for your touch.
I miss your sound. Your voice.
I miss your touch on my cheek. In my hair. On my skin.
Dearest Cellphone, I miss you.