There’s an empty space in my bed. It’s been there for quite a while, and even when it wasn’t, it was never completely filled.

I hold tight to the empty space in the quiet hours of the night when all I can hear is the quiet whir of my aging fan. My hands graze the cool area, warming it for only a moment.

I never wander over toward the empty space. I revere it with a respect I’m not sure it deserves. I leave it be, as though there is a ghost who comes each night to rest and needs the spot all to themselves.

During the day there is sometimes books, or photo albums spreading themselves over the forgotten space. But then comes darkness, and it’s left alone again, a place to gather all the dreams that torture my sleep.

Some have tried to fill the empty space but I have quickly moved them from the sacred spot. It heaves under the weight of what shouldn’t be there and seems irritated that I would even try to cover it up. So I leave it be and wait for the day the taunting space chooses to set me free.