Lost for a while
in your grief, remembering nights where waking up left you breathless and his absence descended on you in the darkness and you were gasping for air, for forgiveness,
for the power to forget.
You wore the loss of him like a funeral shroud, and the space between reality and where you were became larger, filled with all the things you weren’t ready to talk about,
unanswered phone calls, cries for help and the like.
And you imagined inside of you growing a mass of all the ways you had experienced loss, like the baby he convinced you to give up,
weighing you down with how you didn’t speak up,
and now it’s too late.
This is where you were.
Remember now the ways he left even still after you had given up everything for him,
and that you found strength in staying,
even if it was after weeks waking up on the bathroom floor, detangling yourself from within the sheets of men who smelled like him but didn’t fuck like him,
men who asked to stay,
but still you made them leave.
It took months that felt like years, nights that felt like a millenium of missing him,
and this is where you are, maybe moving on or just moving aside from the path that you were on because no one expected you to survive him,
not even you.
This is where you were, who knows where you’ll be tomorrow.