Shadows fall across my bedroom, taunt with lost potential and memories. This used to be my happy sanctuary, now it’s silent and dead. I feel as if a part of me died, though my brain is anything but restful.
My dreams don’t remember that he’s gone, my limbs stretch and reach for something no longer possible. I walk by and disturb his clothing, cologne, shaving materials and he is suddenly so there, being breathed in and exorcised by great gaping wounds in my heart that bleed through eyes that are never dry.
Why does this separation hurt so badly and is so hard to live afterwards? Is it because I actually trusted wholeheartedly in a future together, left myself vulnerable in my honesty and love? Is it because I was truly happy, truly allowed (or what I thought was) to be me, accepted? Because I mistakenly trusted that we would communicate everything and work through issues as they were needed? I feel naive and an overpowering need for the punishment that lurks in believing that I deserved happiness and love.
I don’t know why this feels like it’s killing me slowly; but I know I can’t survive in this bed that was once filled with heat that now leaves me cold.
I tried to replace the memories with a new reality, my longing with dark desire. My limbs reached out to tangle themselves around someone else instead of emptiness, to lose my memories however briefly.
The contrast of the men from him was a brief respite as much as it broke my heart. They didn’t know me intimately, didn’t touch me with love, didn’t fill me so completely. They couldn’t take me on the same trusting journey of pain and pleasure, couldn’t bring me to the same heights.
I worried about things like infections, performances, how I appeared, instead of getting lost in the moment with them, to enjoy the journey and the warm afterglow of two lovers appreciating each other’s bodies.
They stole into my bed in the middle of the night when I was most susceptible to the shadows and disillusioned dreams, and they vanished just as quickly, a band aid that just covers over the heartbreak, that hides the hurt unsuccessfully.
*Written during slutfest week, when I went back to our home to pack up what I could after it was certain that he wanted a divorce.