For a moment, I believed removing the dagger from my chest would stop the pain. Only the wound opened wider. No hands to stitch it, six long months, and I’m still bleeding. I don’t know how to forgive myself for how long I’ve let it consume me, I’ve let it feast on me until I could no longer tell where the pain ends and I begin. I killed you, burned your body, buried the remnants of your bones deep beneath the ground, and still, you remain. Dostoyevsky was right. Your worst sin is to destroy and betray yourself for nothing.
If someone had been gone this long the authorities will have presumed them dead. So I threw you a funeral. The kind with no casket and no body. No sympathies, no condolences, no simple white lilies. No one’s wearing black, no one’s lighting candle. A devastation only I can feel. Although sometimes I do wish you were dead. So I could slice this sadness like a cake and share the pieces with someone else. Perhaps with your mother, or your sister, or some stranger across the street who’s heard good things about you. The day you died, I wish I could mark it. Carve it into a tree, scribble it on a wall, let the grief settle somewhere that isn’t always me. But I can’t. You’re still breathing somewhere— whole, content, and perhaps fulfilled. And sometimes it feels unfair but other times it feels deserved. For all the strings in the past— that I cut without blinking, I’ve finally learned what it feels like to lose someone.
I still see him in strangers’ faces, In every black sedan that passes me by, windows up, a ghost behind the wheel. I see him in every corner of the road to his old apartment a place that isn’t mine anymore. I see him in old pictures of myself in the skin he used to touch, the lips he used to kiss. Now he's become a daily thought a lurking shadow behind the trees, dividing places into: those we visited and those we never got to. Perhaps there’s no getting over this. Perhaps love doesn’t move forward; it just sits heavy on the chest — like an anchor with no rope. Perhaps there’s no love after this, or at least none like ours. No more sweet or sour, just stale. Perhaps, after this, there will be no "more," only less.
Comments
Post a Comment