I do.
So who am I ? After you left. After I rebuilt. I don't feel like me if I pine after you. I don't feel like me if I forget. What am I to do? Between the loving and the leaving and the loss? Between the lying in bed for hours unable to face the crushing reality of a world without you, and the pale existence I chased until it became color again. There wasn't color for so long. I couldn't breathe after you left. My friends, with hearts of gold, laid on top of me to keep me from hyperventilating. Brought me food. Bought me coffee with the money you'd sent long before the end. Now I wake up, and breathe, and get on without you. But you're still there. In the damned music the coffee shop plays. In the shirt hidden behind my dresser. In the handwriting scrawled inside my journal. In my roommate's mind. (You two got along so well) "I'm angry now. Not sad." I tell my therapist. "Could you be both?" She asks. "Could you hold both th...