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If I could choose one word to describe this last year, it would be rumination.
I must think of you at least 27 times a day. On a good day, maybe only 22.
Still, your face manages to greet me every morning as I wake up and every evening as I weep into my pillow. I still wear makeup, hoping things will be different, but it just becomes ink for my next poem. My white pillowcases are now stained from black mascara.
Maybe I’ll wear blue tomorrow and paint the sky I once admired. I haven’t looked at it since you dropped me from the nest where you once cared for me.
You’re everywhere, and while I miss you, I wish I could set you down. I want this these days more than anything.
I often imagine going inside my brain and cutting out the part that has your name and emails on repeat. If I could, I’d remove these details from my memory, put them in a large plastic box with a picture of your face, and Duct tape it shut before burying it deep into the earth.
I can’t though.
I can’t bury memories of someone who touched my soul the way you did.
So instead, I sit here saying your five-letter name over and over again while I deteriorate into a puddle of black tears. I think I’ll wear blue tomorrow and paint the sky.
I met someone recently who reminds me of you. You and her do similar work, and I can’t help but cry as I look at her and see you.
Maybe you dropping me from the nest was a gift. Maybe you want me to learn to walk on my own. Maybe this is the lesson, or maybe I’m looking for some lesson so I feel the impact of my fall a little less.
I may never know your reasoning for dropping me, but I will always remember you. Your name is written in mascara on my pillow, after all.
I don’t know if I’ve ever told you or if it matters much now, but I love you and always will.