WHAT BECOMES OF THE...?
I'm pretty sure that the most difficult human condition is heartbreak.
There is no known treatment or medication. You cannot see a doctor about it. Walk up and down the aisles of Duane Reede and you will find nothing that can subside the pain. There is nothing that can numb the harrowing feeling of emptiness, at least not of a legal variety. Tomorrow looks even more bleak than today. The bed you sleep in--if you call this "sleep"--is too big and intimidating. It knows of your condition and almost mocks it, giving you significant space, reminding you that an absence is so much more potent than a presence.
I am anxious. I clean my room. I clean the living room. I think too much. My mind tells me to relax, to stop using it so much. I feel my neck turn to a tense knot like a twisted rope. Everything is a point of reference, a reminder of a better time. A picture, a note, a song, an article in the newspaper...oh, we were hoping to do that, I think. Yes, I remember when she spoke of this.
All the things I was hoping we would get to, never to be done. A check list left unchecked. A dozen events or places that will never know me. Or us.
Avoid the thought of her moving on. The awkwardness of running into her with someone else. The air in the room turning to a smokey thickness. The way my heart will most likely fall through the floor and into the ground below, buried and abandoned. Perhaps someone will dig it up in the future. Perhaps that person will be me.
I'm pretty sure that the most difficult human condition is heartbreak.
There is no known treatment or medication. You cannot see a doctor about it. Walk up and down the aisles of Duane Reede and you will find nothing that can subside the pain. There is nothing that can numb the harrowing feeling of emptiness, at least not of a legal variety. Tomorrow looks even more bleak than today. The bed you sleep in--if you call this "sleep"--is too big and intimidating. It knows of your condition and almost mocks it, giving you significant space, reminding you that an absence is so much more potent than a presence.
I am anxious. I clean my room. I clean the living room. I think too much. My mind tells me to relax, to stop using it so much. I feel my neck turn to a tense knot like a twisted rope. Everything is a point of reference, a reminder of a better time. A picture, a note, a song, an article in the newspaper...oh, we were hoping to do that, I think. Yes, I remember when she spoke of this.
All the things I was hoping we would get to, never to be done. A check list left unchecked. A dozen events or places that will never know me. Or us.
Avoid the thought of her moving on. The awkwardness of running into her with someone else. The air in the room turning to a smokey thickness. The way my heart will most likely fall through the floor and into the ground below, buried and abandoned. Perhaps someone will dig it up in the future. Perhaps that person will be me.
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