I write about him less and less. Not because I think about him less, but because I think about him more. It scares me, saddens me; I don't want to love him forever, don't want to live in a state of missing.
The blackness settles each night and fragmented dreams crawl in my window with the cool air. They pull me in and out of sleep, disrupt the stillness of my tiny cocoon. They pull and pull, tirelessly, until I begin again: I wade through the debris and silence and loss, and, eventually, inevitably, find myself back in a sea of living, breathing love. I always make my way back.
Only he's not there.
How ordinary.
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