That's that then. Time's up, and on we go, living our seperate lives again. Love is a fickle mistress, unquestionably, sneaking up behind you and capturing you with no warning, and turning around and leaving you, cold, numb and shivering in the dark just as quickly, taking with it everything it gave you and more. Uncaringly fleeing, while you struggle to feel the ground under your feet once more, to piece together the shattered fragments of your broken heart, and fail to find the light that was once the future that you will never have.
Each sight, each sound, and each smell is nothing but a reminder of what you once had, but failed to keep. Each well meaning cliche is a stab to the heart, the heart that has already taken more than it can handle.
Time is passing, each forgotten day marked with a black cross, each cross made with the relief of getting through another day, and the reluctance to do it all again, day after day.
The days are coming easier now, and the time spent thinking about the unseen loss is less than it was the day before. And hopefully one day, not too far away, I'll wake up and not miss having someone there with me. Hearing my own heartbeat will be satisfaction enough.
Until then though, I'll struggle on, and if anyone asks how I'm doing, I'll tell them I'm doing just fine. I'll laugh at their jokes, and probably won't fake it. I'll smile more than I cry, and I'll try to stop holding myself together because I'm afraid I'll fall apart if I don't.
I'll get there.
But I won't be the same person anymore.
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