I have been told by numerous individuals not to let this pain consume me.

But how do I do that, when grace is the biggest tragedy I've ever known?

The breath of life itself feels like an utmost betrayal,

like as though salt of the earth is mocking my sheer will to be.

I don't know how to exist outside myself,

Outside this body that has only witnessed departures of the ones who vowed to stay within, beside,...... always.

Outside this mind that is on par with the despair that has seemed to last longer than it promised to; begged to.

I have been told,
numerously,
not to dwell on what was,
/what could have been,
/what will never be,
/what should have been if only I hadn't resembled the person that I was on most days.

............I should have led him to false truths.

After all,
The houses built on lies, seem to harbor the strongest foundations,
the simplest facades.......

The idealistic framework of a hope that has sworn to stay.

Should we just have never embarked on this Exodus?

Maybe then I wouldn't have to be present in a future enraptured by your absence.

I look for you in the unfamiliar, pleading for a chance to atone for the times I didn't love you the way your spirit asked me to; begged me to.

I think life is sort of funny like that.

It gives us grief and torment, undertoned by conditions of stability and commitment, still masked by peace and contentment.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours after you've given shadow and sin,
bones and dreams,
beginnings and unendings"

It will let you know however, that forever is a fickle concept.
An anomaly of truth. An unworthy penance.

Forever is today telling you tomorrow won't be guaranteed, yet you defer and let momentous pleasure consume you.

Forever is you right now, unravelled, unmade, wondering when it will finally be you.

Life won't tell you "This suffering shall be yours when you're left with answers to questions you were scared to ask".

You assume shame should be a stark reminder, that maybe grace and longevity weren't meant to have been breathed into your "always".

Or maybe loving him was the only way to afford a glimpse of misfortune; what could never be if the two of you had become.

But that's not you, is it?

For you shame is nothing compared to the cold indents in your waist where his hands once took residence.
Or the ache between your legs where  futures were built in the stillness of nights and raucous of mornings.

Shame is nothing compared to his words of adoration to another; unshakable dedication to another.

Shame is nothing compared to this emptiness

To these words.

To the forever that never was