You left a gaping wound in me.
I'm still measuring the whole
Of all that we were meant to be.

I knew, I knew, I always knew...
I tried to leave, but I chose not to.

Are the times I'm living in now really so strange?
It feels that way, but aren't all times strange?
Aren't we always on the verge of something?
Couldn't the world always end at any moment?
Isn't humanity always on the edge of extinction?

Why does it hurt so bad again?
Why do I miss him so much?
Why did it touch me when he apologized?
Why do I want to reach out and touch him?

The world is falling apart around me—
nearly literally...
And my tears are for him?
For myself?

If we're not allowed to cry for our own hearts
Then what can we cry for?

The part of me that loved him died.
I shudder from the deepness of the wound.
I feel it from my wrist to my throat.

I really lost myself...
But it felt like finding myself,
and that terrifies me.

My whole life is a series of discovering foundational lies...
That my sense of self was built on shifting sands.

I don't know how to live now,
I realize I'm still dazed by your absence,
I still find myself staring down
a thousand miles at the ceiling
some nights.
But you're a thousand miles away.
Lightyears— nonexistent—
so far.
I want to think of larger things.
How long will I live in this trap
of my own making?
I want to think about so much
more than you.
I want to think about everything
but you
are there in the way
of my thoughts.
I have to trust that my mind
can still unravel some
unfound revelation
yet to be found in you.
I have to trust my mind...

I miss you.

I miss him.
I miss the person I knew.

But you were never there.
Being homesick
with nowhere to call home.

I miss my husband.

My imagined lover.

I miss the false sense of knowing.
I miss everything.

I miss you.
I miss us.
I miss the space I was living in.

I miss myself— the softer version.
I'm so tired now.

I could be light with you—
I thought so...
How does two years hurt so much—
an injury a hundred years old.
The thing I miss the most
is your stomach in the small of my back
in time with your breathing.

I don't know where to hold those moments.
Where in my body do I bury them?

Where do I bury you now that you're gone?

The thrill of goodbye—
to jump from a cliff of that height
the choice of how to go: fast or slow
though terminal velocity remains—
the suspension
that one moment
the split second between universes
the one eon before the end.