ill
    at
        the
             thought
of
   her
        head
                 in
                     the
                          spot
where
           mine
                    ought
                               to
                                   be
but
      is
         not
                 -

recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.

recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.

it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.

something i noticed about myself
is that, for as long as i can remember,
i've always slept on only one side of my bed

i can't help but wonder - maybe it's my subconscious,
leaving room for all the lovers i dream up in my head -
awaiting a second body to occupy the extra space beside me

i sleep on my side, too. often times resembling the shape of a crescent moon.
arms outstretched, reaching to touch imaginary stars, like my nonexistent lover.

and so as the moon, cold, always longing for the safety and cover of the clouds,
the same way i long for holding arms - but instead, alone, in the vastness of the sky.