After you are gone, I forget how to live.
I search for you in between the shadows, in the grocery aisle, around every corner. I scream your name into the darkness, as if I could call you home. I lie on the fresh green grass where your body rests underground and offer anything, anything to bring you back. You are the breath in my lungs, and I try to hold you in until I am gasping, dizzy, alone.
I enroll in community college. I search for a class on overcoming grief. There is none. I sign up for a writing class instead. All the letters form your name again and again, and the sentences make sense to no one but me.
I stay up at night, wondering if we love things just so they can leave. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t have been you. It shouldn’t be anyone. I tell myself I’ll feel better in the morning. I lie a lot.
I make lists of all the things I love about you. I write until my fingers bleed and stain the pages. I fill each notebook until I have a forest of memories. It’s not enough. It’s not you.
This body is just a coffin. A way to keep me pinned to the earth. I don’t want to stay here without you. I don’t want to go; I’m afraid you’ve gone to a place where I can’t follow. I can’t bear to live each day, knowing it brings me further from when I saw you last.
In the early hours of the morning, the cold turns my breath into little ghosts. I watch the sunrise until the sky becomes the color of your eyes. And maybe this is how it happens. I don’t feel warm, but I feel a little less cold. Today, that is enough.
