Everyday, I feel as if I lose myself to various things: to the mundaneness of mornings, the harsh bite of coffee…
Yet, when I learned of your departing, all of those losses were reduced to something petty. Only then, did I allow myself to truly sink, to submit myself to the sorrow.
The pain is inevitable. Throughout this daylight dream, I’ve penned my thoughts.
The callousness of your leaving will not leave me.
When chores desert my hands and I lay sinking on the sheets, I stare at the ceiling. If I move out of my body and look at my corporeal self, I could imagine how my stare looks, how it betrays a kind of haunting.
Talking about you in past tense adds up to the sense of finality. You are not going back.
I think I know why I can’t hold a smile for too long: perhaps, my lips remember what I try to forget.