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.
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.
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.
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
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.