Last night, I fell asleep with an unshaken belief I wouldn't wake up this morning. I accepted it, welcomed it even. It seemed right. I looked at your picture for what I thought was the last time, and as I closed my eyes, I remember thinking there was something shatteringly peaceful about your crooked half smile staring into space.
When you left I knew exactly what it would do to me. I could picture it in my head long before you did. My body curled in a fetal position, my howls clumsily bitten on my sleeve, my tears, tiny rivulets scattered in the places, my eyes hoped your footprints would be. But you never did leave a mark, did you? I imagined how insanity would have the embrace she'd always been so adamantly refused, and the scars on my wrist would taste the touch of their cold metallic friend again and the winter seeping through the floor would finally claim my already dying body as her own.
But you are gone. And my eyes still haven't shed a tear, for fear of losing the pieces of you I haven't yet transcribed into words. I stand at the ledge and my feet still haven't taken things into their own (um) feet. My heart still beats, more by habit than by will and my ragged breath, white as snow, still paints the dawn with a deceitful glow.
You see this is what breaks me. That you are gone, and it hasn't killed me yet, or turned me into the madman I was sure it would. It hasn't ruined me enough to be found unconscious in some unfamiliar dirty alley again. Because, I still live, and to be alive, without you, feels... wrong.
Don't you see? To be alive, is what kills me.
// What kills me //