I know some days it gets tough.
Some days even the task of your lungs filling up and emptying out seems crushing
Holding on to something, someone, that far away in space, time, memory and feeling,
It’s like watching the rope go slight with every passing second
Yet holding on to this yarn of dreams and hopes and concocted ecstasies.
To wake up to the sneaky stillness of a half occupied bed, occupied only half-heartedly
To not remember the details of that dream
through which, for once, you actually built your home in him
And you awake
to fabricated feelings
of his hands on your waist,
the brush of his hair making your skin tingle,
your body a cesspool of touches.
The way thinking about how it used to be
Does things to your eyes that make lights in the distance
appear taller than they actually are
And makes your throat swell like a womb birthing jagged longing.
The way you allow yourself to be placed at this precipice of love
And further allow yourself to be shoved down when desires get cold
Only for you to climb back up each time
Convincing yourself that he didn’t push you off,
That you just fell down.