Floating In The Ether (Poem)

How do you get over the loss of someone who meant the world to you?

Well, the truth is you don’t.

You simply find a way to deal with it.

I wish I could sit here,

look into your beautifully shaped oval eyes

and tell you that it will get better with time.

But, for me it won’t,

so I can’t even pretend this is the case.


The fact is that it never gets easier;

you just find something or someone to dull the pain.


You find something to distract you

from the emptiness in your heart.


You find something else to live for,

or at least a mitigating circumstance

that would require you to remain alive for a while longer.


But, the pain never leaves.


It’s always there.


When you think for a second that you

are finally ahead of it,

and finally free of its clutches,

it comes around the corner,

like a tailing policeman,

waiting for you to let your guard down.


It sneaks up on you

and makes you aware

of how vulnerable you really are.


It brings you to your knees and makes you it’s bitch;

at least for a while.


You know, sometimes lying in bed,

I can smell her.


I can smell my Michelle.


My heart races

and I open my eyes looking for her,

knowing she’s not there.


Even then,

my heart sinks because I realize

that if she were there in some physical form,

it wouldn’t be the same person.


It would be some facsimile.


It would be some kind of “evolved” Michelle

that would be an even more horrible match for me

than the first one was.


So I persevere

and I smile,

and I pretend to be a well adjusted human being.


You smile,

I smile;

we all smile.


We go about our days.

Sometimes we recognize each other’s scars.

Sometimes we don’t.

But, we always know.


We recognize the fake smile,

the empty stares into space

where for a split second

we’re not even really there.


We’re a thousand miles away in a bed,

Naked, writhing and care-free,

that is until we come back to our senses.


We all go through the five stages of grief,

until we come to the acceptance.

But, you can’t really call it “acceptance”, per se.


It’s more like a physical ache distilled into a word.




Even the word itself sounds empty and vapid.


I should be a good enough person

to let the situation make me better.

But, the better person doesn’t exist.

There is just me.

Without her.


Even if you and I slept together

and provided each other with companionship,

it wouldn’t do any good.


It would simply be one of us,

looking for the better parts of our loss within the other.


We’d have our fun,

we’d have our carnal delights,

but in the end,

we’d just be two entities floating in the ether

of this daily unimaginable struggle for sanity.


And we’d still be just as sane, or insane.


We would just be enough to distract ourselves

from the mind-numbing sameness of the pain.


It would be fun, but not enough.


We all house the imago of our past lovers

in a small place in our hearts that grow larger

the more we love.


When that love ends,

it becomes twisted and gnarled,

like an arthritic hand,

until it dries into a husk.


The shadow of its former self,

hardly recognizable and barely useful.


Then the place in your heart

that you allowed to grow large out of love

becomes useless for only keeping self-hate

and resentment.


The hole within you becomes an abyss,

and you fall into yourself.


Sometimes you crawl out.

Sometimes you peek out of the hole

only to discover that the world doesn’t give a shit about you,

and that you were better off hurting and alone,

even when surrounded by a sea of friends and family.


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