I still sleep on my side of the bed: a poem

There's a kind of sadness that the word sadness doesn't do justice to the feeling. A kind of grief that's a deep pit of dispair. A dark inky well filled with lost hopes and dreams drowned in tears.
And she follows me. There's no escape. She's in my waking thoughts and in my daydreams. She's in the breeze and the sun and even my perspiration. My cells yearn for the love lost and each one cries in sorrow. She follows me into my dreams each night as I toss and turn and wake up in fits convulsing with the sobs of a kind of hurt that fills only the voids and shadows of a broken sunless soul.
I find myself lost each day anew. Living in a bland world. Food has no taste. Colors pale and burnt barely above a gray scale.
I smile sometimes but it's not mine. It's borrowed from the man I was. On loan, at best from a fractured memory that feels like a distant past from an alien that wore my skin.
And so I can never truly be lonely; ache is my constant companion feeding my eyes and cheeks with it's salty wet words.
And i still sleep on my side of the bed.