As a blanket of dew forms over dead grass, eyes open:
Eyes burdened with guilt and regret, weary with days.
After several minutes of thought, he rises.
Blistered fingers trace over unkempt stubble plaguing his cheeks;
He sighs, as if to evoke pity from only the air around him.

Her eyes never closed in the first place, losing their hours staring at the blank canvas of ceiling, mapping every flake of old paint as her hair formed her face a frame on the sheet.
The thought of reconcile seemed distant, but the way they used to smile, she missed it.

As the architects of their own misery, shame hung over both like a black cloud.
During this emotional demise, he found god, and fell apart, pushed into new beliefs in which he had little [bad word]  She, on the hand, found a new partner and got on with her life. This is where she leaves the story, in our heads at least.
But he never forgot; he created their future in his head and re-ran old memories as if on tape, wiping parts to static and inventing his own fantasy over them. He still felt her presence, and this is what made him go mad.

974 days crossed off, tallied in notches on the desk; I remain broken by the incident and have spent months trying to piece myself back together, purely because of your jealousy.