I woke up
one morning with the
realization that he had left me. In a
mental sense, having nothing to do with the reality of the
situation. He had been the
object to which my thoughts inevitably turn...in class, at work, in bed before I manage to fall asleep and as soon as I wake up in the morning. I would think of his
kiss, his touch, the things he said that brought me happiness, the things he said that tore me apart. He was a
space, an
entity, a
force like
gravity in my mind and heart, and he never even knew he was there to begin with.
But I woke up one morning, and he had left. Not gradually, the way that he took up residence within me, but all of a sudden. I went to reach for him, and instead of the memory of soft lips, I feel only a dull ache, like that of an old injury on a damp day.
Part of me wants to rebel, fight against this...anything is better than this strange emptiness, even recalling careless words and actions that hurt me more than anything, ever. The memories are still there, if I concentrate I can pull them out, but it's not the same. He is an empty space in a broken heart.
And yet this is a good thing. This is what they mean when they say "This too shall pass." This is getting over you.