To Lincoln

One in the morning, I wake up to the sound of silence. Your absence ironically becoming a presence much too strong, seeping right through the paper-thin walls of what once was my heart.

This is me staring at the blinking cursor. This is me feeling naked as though the shadows of our past keep undressing my soul. This is me drowning in the frothy waves of my despair. This is me pointing an accusing finger at your chest. This is me not knowing what has become of us.

This is me trying to understand why you chose to keep the hurt bottled up. This is me attempting to connect the dots and see what pushed you to that edge. This is me figuring out when it all started. This is me dissatisfied with the answers I really didn't want to get.

This is me lost and confused. This is me staring at that packet of crushed methamphetamine. This is me deciding I'd rather forget that the other side of my duvet is unoccupied. This is me evading the overwhelming urge to cry myself to sleep as the bulb on the lamp on your side of the bed fades and eventually dies. This is me promising myself a state of euphoria despite the fact that I know I will never wake up to the smell of you.

This is me forcing myself to lead my life the way I used to. This is me riding the train at seven in the morning. This is me ordering a cup of coffee I know will be left on my blank desk. This is me walking the paved roads to the sparkling tower I call my office. This is me moving on. Or so I tell my empty self.

This is me rubbing my arms at the frigid wind that whips past. This is me clutching on to the steering wheel with my knuckles turning white. This is me driving out in the freeway, eyes cold as steel. This is me speeding past a blur of trees. This is me trying to outrun the memory of you.

This is me pushing my foot down the brake. This is me breathing in the heavy atmosphere that you left. This is me basking in the darkness of your abandonment.

This is me pacing my car and biting my lip until the metallic taste of blood meets my senses. This is me making up my mind and heading at the direction I clearly am not equipped to navigate to. This is me wincing at each contact my limbs have at the soft grass splayed evenly beneath me.

This is me delaying the inevitable. This is me finally waking up to my new reality. This is me making my way towards the mahogany tree. This is me kneeling in front of what remains of you. This is me running my fingers at the embossed numbers signifying where we start and where we ended.

This is me torn, my dear. This is me with a soul obliterated to a million pieces that couldn't be put back together. This is me not shedding a single tear; too numb to even squeeze one drop out. This is me entering that realm of paranoia yet again. This is me playing over the last words you said in my head.

This is me coping with the loss of you. This is me; the version of me that your ghost has created. This is me, a woman too scorned to live in the flesh. This is me wrapping the camouflage jacket that's stained with too much death. This is me taking in the reek of decaying bodies and unachieved dreams.

I have to go now my darling.

This is me closing the final chapter of
our story. This is me unclasping my hold on your hand, but not on your heart. This is me accepting what I can't change. This is me letting you go.

Three in the morning; I slip under the blankets and dream of my future. Without you.

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Word Count: 676