There were days I thought I'd never open my eyes,
days I didn't want to, days I have long tried forgetting.
We called it the Aftermath.

The calm always settles before the storm.
So they say. Hardly could one handle the
violent twists and turns in the winds you spun—
I could never quite quickly enough grasp
a branch to hang on to.
I wasn't yet strong enough. Yet.

The days after the storm, I sat idle, nigh—catatonic
outside your apartment door singing 'Sweet Caroline' like a *******
child because, in my childish, young heart, I thought,
You can hear me. You're listening.
The return silence was deafening.

Nothing was audible, save the radiator buzzing in the hall and the fierce, intrepid lapping of winter wind against a broken window pane.