Fifteen days ago the world ended. The earth stopped spinning, the sun imploded, the stars dropped out of the sky and the ocean fell flat.

And yet.

Here I am, on a beautiful Saturday midnight, standing waist-deep in the Pacific as my hands skim the surface.

The moon that should have collapsed is full, cold with soft edges, its light reflecting off black water in front and behind me. The stars that shouldn’t be allowed to be beautiful anymore are bright, and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand to look at her ocean, so my eyes are shut tight and my palms are pressing to the lids, I see splotches of purple and violet. Violet.

Why do I still wake up? Why does my skin bruise and heal? Why do my hands still make beautiful things, why do the dark circles under my eyes grow more pronounced, why is she not here anymore?

I ache.

Each bone, muscle, tendon, each inch of skin is on fire.

I’d give every breath left in my lungs if only to give her five. Three. One. One breath. One more second that I could see her face, touch her lips, remind myself that nothing can be more beautiful than her eyes.

I cup the water in my hands, let it flow over and around and through. My legs should be cold. The water should be cold. Vaguely, I remember my mother - tall, beautiful - pushing the hair away from my face. The TV was on. Weather channel. It’s supposed to be freezing. I should be shivering uncontrollably right now.

But all I feel is numb.

The grief councilor my mother made me go see yesterday said that grief is like a desert. You walk and walk and all you can think is that you’re never going to get out, you’re never going to find water. There are mirages, spots where you think you’ll be okay, but they disappear as soon as you get closer. And then, one day, you find an oasis.

He said it’s important to understand that this feeling won’t last forever, that every desert recedes into ocean.

But his office smelled like cheap beer and cigarettes. I see no reason to trust him.

My shoulders are warm. Too warm. My hair is too heavy, pulling at my scalp, sticking to my neck.

I get out of the water finally, because my **** hair won’t stop bothering me. I rifle through my bag, find the cheap pair of little-kid scissors she always teased me for carrying everywhere.

Well, here you go, shortie. I finally proved you wrong.

I wade back into the water, running my fingers through my hair. It’s long, dull brown. She always loved it, for some reason.

I close the dull blades around a lock.

Snip.

Again.

Snip.

I watch it fall into the water, carried away by the waves.

Snip.

The things she loved don’t matter anymore.

Snip.

I don’t matter anymore.

Soon most of my hair is in the water, swirling around my legs, clinging to the skin. I move away, frustrated yet again.

My head feels lighter.

I wade farther out. The water’s at my stomach, my chest, my shoulders. I duck under, feel the water against my scalp in a way I never have before.

She’s there, under the water. Floating in front of me, skin pale, white, cold. Her eyes are shut, her lips are motionless.

And there’s this tremendous rush of sound, like whale song, pushing into my ears and her eyes are open now, striking green. Her lips are moving, she’s saying something. You’re worrying again, aren’t you.

She smiles.

Her hand is on my cheek. Her lips replace her hand.

My lungs are exploding.

I resurface, gasping for air. I still feel her lips, phantom touch.

I take a breath of cool night air, wiping salt from my eyes, whether it’s tears or the ocean doesn’t matter.

I look at the stars.