Grasshoper III

Its been a month, or more since you've been gone. Most days it seems to take too much effort to count the weeks since you died. There are times when the fullness of my life keeps the guilt and the rage at bay. There are times when I am playing with the puppy or waiting for my boyfriend to come home, that I feel almost normal. There are moments when I don't feel horribly damaged, or jaded or alone.

Still, I hit those bad times on occasion. I have those nights when it seems I can't get right with the world around me. I feel heavy and oppressed by my mistakes, my losses, my guilt and my grief. There are days when I can't wait to finish this fucking book and bury you at last. There are moments when I long for a private moment to close my eyes and think of something, some memory of you not tainted by the evil of your weakness. The other day, I heard your laughter in my head, crystal clear and I couldn't breathe. I came home to an empty house, a space I never shared with you but you seemed to haunt it all the same. I sank, sobbing, to my knees in the shower, overcome with a strange sense of loss. It took some time to regain my composure. These days when I fall apart, I don't cry for missing you. I cry for the love I gave you, the force of that feeling. I cry for the days I gave you, the months, the years. I cry for the desparation of wanting to be with you forever and for knowing the horrible truth of our ultimate limitation. I cry for the dead visions in my head, the sunny daydreams gone sour. I cry because I could not save you, and in the end, I didn't even want to. Mostly though, I cry for the person I was with you and the person I became because of you.