darling—

i almost made it out
the house
down the slanted
           concrete
                      steps
i nearly passed the garden gate
with tired
        ivy
            crawlers
for a moment i thought i was free
no ghosts
       no ashen memories—
But bags in hand i couldn't help
and took
     a glance
            behind.

My jealousy is not a thing of beauty.
I don't wear my envy
daintily on my sleeves,
I scribble it on my hands and face with a
cheap green crayon.

Looking at you feels like my heart
is microwaving aluminum foil on high.
Not because I'm jealous of what you have but because
I'm jealous of what we could've been together,
had circumstances been different.
If one day you had sat here
instead of there and maybe we would've been friends and
what if
     what if
          what if—

I'm jealous because apparently
there are people in the world who don't spend every minute
overthinking
who don't feel the need to
analyze every little detail and wouldn't it be nice to breathe,
to breathe and not
     think.

I think in fragments.

Half-sentences, rushed together.
Incomplete.
Human.

You think in beautiful rhymes and phrases.
Sewn together with careless precision.
Perfect, godlike.

How could I have ever hoped for us to last?

I think too much.

Maybe that's the wrong way of putting it.
I don't think—thoughts ravage me.
They assault me with battering rams
in daylight, and at night they slip into my mind
As spiders, spinning webs through my consciousness
Weaving me awake.

They follow me like ghosts
Whispering in my ears, demanding an audience.
I hold my breath as I walk through hallways,
Afraid of breathing in thoughts I cannot contain.

I attempt to capture my thoughts,
to hold them in a poetic prison.
Pen to paper
and all my insecurities and doubts come rushing out
Like drowning in reverse.

I can breathe.

What was it like to love him ? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered. And
brought to life in a flash of brilliance.

What was it like to be loved in return ? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I
replied. To be heard after a lifetime of silence.

What was it like to lose him ? Asked Sorrow.
There was a long pause before I responded :

It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to
me—said all at once.
-Lang Leav

I used to think I couldn't go a day without your smile. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back.

Then, that day arrived and it was so **** hard but the next was harder. I knew with a sinking feeling it was going to get worse, and I wasn't going to be okay for a very long time.

Because losing someone isn't an occasion or an event. It doesn't just happen once. It happens over and over again. I lose you every time I pick up your favorite coffee mug, whenever that one song plays on the radio, or when I discover your old t-shirt at the bottom of my laundry pile.

I lose you every time I think of kissing you, holding you, or wanting you. I go to bed at night and lose you, when I wish I could tell you about my day. And in the morning, **when I wake and reach for the empty space across the sheet, I begin to lose you all over again.