Christening The House

Gone...

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I can hear the rain on the roof of this empty house....

That don’t bother me anymore.

I can feel tears in my eyes, now and then and just let them out...

I am not afraid to cry every once in a while.

Even though going on with you gone... still kills me.

There are days every now and again I pretend I am okay.

But that’s not what gets me...

Rain streams down the windows, a misty haze rising off the freezing pavement, filling the air with the chilly scent of wet concrete. Sitting on the window seat, I watch the water drops move down the panes, racing to an unknown end, searching for a new path to continue their arduous descent.

Heaving a sigh, I lean my forehead against the cool glass, the reflection of the tears rolling down my cheeks lost in the endless dark that settles over the late winter evening. It’s been three years since you left, three years of sheer fucking hell. I thought I would have run out of tears by now, but the simplest things still bring on a fresh onslaught.

A part of me always scared of loosing you, because... everything I ever wanted so desperately in my life, always have been snatched away from me. But, I tried to locked my fear away, a secret that I take out and examine daily, wondering what if. What if you haven't gone out that night... What if I had hold on to you and never let you walk out... Would any of it had made any difference ?? Would you have gone anyway ?? I had fooled myself into believing that if I had tried to... You might have listened to me. 

I had preserve a piece of my heart. Instead, I have been left with endless questions and futile musings.

What hurts the most...

Is being so close...

And having so much to say...

And watching you walk away...

Only at night, when I can turn my back on the rest of the world, am I able to allow the grief free rein. By day, I put on a mask, a wry smile, pretending that I am strong, that I have let you go. I answer their questions, accept their platitudes, while the knifing, red hot pain tears through my chest. No one ever looks past the façade. If they did, they could see the pain in my eyes, pain so deep I am sure it’s burnt onto my soul.

I sat in the living room for hours after the final goodbye to you... that night, the stars retreating with the moon, a bright sun rising to mock the blackness that filled my world. You were my sun, the light to my existence. The tears didn’t come right away. I waited, certain, one day you would come back. But as the days progressed, the shadows creeping across the floor, the harsh realization of your absence washed over me. The rush of pain had me gasping, my hand pressing against my chest, where it felt like it had been ripped open, my heart following you, leaving a gaping wound nothing could fill. The dust motes, swirling in the last rays of daylight, blurred before my eyes when the tears finally came. I curled into a ball on the floor, sobs racking my body.

Then I saw it, its presence compounding my grief. The guitar I have gifted you. In a rage, with a roar of anguish, impotent tears still tracking through the grime on my face, I exploded. I swept my hand across its polished surface, the sheets of songs, you wrote for me, flying through the room, fluttering to the floor, discarded like I had discarded everything important. I swung it with relentless destruction, until, with my hands bloodied by the wires I had yanked from it, splinters from the shattered wood embedded in my fingers, I collapsed in the devastation I had wrought.

After hours of ignored phone calls, our friends found me in the disaster zone that had become my life. They had tended to my bruised and battered hands, cleaned up the destruction, forced me to eat, tried to make me go to sleep. Even after all these months and years, sleep rarely comes to me. Instead, I wander aimlessly through a web of tangled memories and loss.