Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Postcards from a breaking heart
I watch a show, laugh at how horrible it is before it hits me that the last time I watched it, you were curled up with me, content and comfortable despite my yelling at the Telly.
Can I be honest here?
I don't know how you're gone. I don't understand it. I am physically unable to get over the quiet you've left behind.
It's so quiet.
I throw open the windows in the apartment, almost viciously, to let in fresh air.
And in my head I say, I don't have to worry about you running out. But a whisper of truth tucked behind my ear reminds me it's because you've already done that.
But in the same way I do that, I look for you when the magic-wipe squeaks a little too loud, to tell you it's just me. When a thunderstorm starts, I wonder if you're okay, and if you'd rather be in the room because you get so scared. I want to tell you i'm here if you want a cuddle. And when the idiot neighbour downstairs starts smoking and it gets in the house, I slide the windows shut and turn to you wanting to say I'll keep you out of the laundry room for a bit,
You're not here.