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.

It’s hard

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.

It’s cruel

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.

It’s dangerous

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.


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