Conflict is letting him go with a smile on my face – the last image he will carry of me, even though inside I’m silently screaming, terrified, already feeling the loss of his presence in my daily life, hoping/praying I will see him again.
It is also, oddly enough, having him back in my arms, my home – no correction…our home; falling in love all over again in kisses and bodies intertwining, sharp words or cautious walking around the house dealing with anything else. A readjustment in sharing responsibilties, problems, parenting, finances, meals, nightmares, goals and dreams.
Conflict is his screaming or sweating with remembered nightmares, being helpless to stop them, to hold him when it is safe, when he returns back from hell and finds himself safe between the sheets – I am beside him however I can be.
Conflict is moving; new in friends, house, job, support; where is the fucking silverware drawer this time, my love, my life, sleep, calm?
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