Forever alone. No matter what happens from now on, that is what I will be. I’m surrounded by friends and family, cradled with attention and care; drowning in gazes of compassion and empathy. I can see it, understand it, appreciate it, but I can’t feel it. Not now. Not ever.
Breathing aches… living aches. I knew this moment would come, even you tried to prepare me for it as your condition deteriorated. We even talked about it and I imagined it a thousand times, played it out in my head. But when it actually happened, that moment when you left, the sight of your last breath left me dead as well.
How could I thought that I’d be able to live without you?
It was always just the two of us, for as long as I remember you defined me. Your presence defined me. Your laughter was my purpose in life and your caresses were what kept my soul in one piece. Six decades, six perfect decades of Love. Thousands of smiles, kisses, hugs, touches and secret gazes. Thousands of reasons to live, all vanished with one last breath.
Each tear is tearing me further apart; painful trails of molten lead blistering on my face. It’s all I feel, all that’s left of me. It will pass, they keep telling me. How do they know? I can see their concerned gazes and I’m aware of the secretive, whispers behind my back. I know they just care for me, the best way they know how. I don’t blame them – how could they know how it feels? How could they know that pain can not only consume you, but become you. I don’t wan’t it to stop, ever. I don’t want time to heal anything. I don’t want any time at all. I just want you back. I wan’t to lye next to you again, with my head on your chest, your fingers caressing my face. I was yours, I belonged to you, I lived because of you.
What am I now? An empty shell of pain and grief. A vacuum of lonely breaths. Ubiquitous hollowness.
Loneliness solidified.
***
koumudi
at 10:05 am
With the stillness of the dead
I lay down on the cold floor
wishing someone would light a candle for me.
wrap me up in a white sheet
and bury me in my bed
for the stain of the winter rebellion
is no longer a red poppy in the white snow.
Couldn’t think of any other way of responding to your writtings? Riverine