I spent seven days staring at burgundy walls - you always hated the colour I chose.
Day one I tried to cry, to mourn, to breathe. No matter how loud I screamed, you never came back to me.
Day two my throat was raw, and water might have eased me for a moment, but my god there was no cure to the pain of missing you.
Day three I swatted at worried hands and closed my eyes, but I had to keep opening them to make certain the walls weren't really closing in on me.
Day four I whispered my own name a million different times, just trying to find a way I might roll it off my tongue the way you used to.
Day five I forgot the sound of your laughter and I tried so ******* hard to just get across the room, to the phone, maybe if I called you would pick up. Maybe you could just remind me, just once more.
Day six my body burned and I forgot how my front yard looked, but I still couldn't find it in myself to throw my feet over the edge of our - my - bed, and walk outside.
Day seven I still stared at the same four walls, but I noticed how much I loved the burgundy paint, and that I never had to hear your complaints about it again.
Day eight I stood up, despite the aching in my chest and I admired burgundy walls for being a beacon of hope, and of forgiveness, amongst the vast sea of blame you left me to swim in.
I don't know how many days its been now, but I never did repaint our - my - room.
You're the kind of heartbreak that will always bring another day one every so often,
But as long as my walls are burgundy, staring at them for seven days will never be too heavy a price for finally freeing myself from you.