I wrote a poem about you once.
I was lonely one Tuesday night,
And instead of going straight to having conversations with the cracks in the walls or the creaks in my bones
I decided to pour the thoughts of you into ink
And immortalize you on paper instead.
You see, there’s a saying I read once that claimed that if a writer falls in love with you,
Then you could never die.
And if that’s true, love, then you’ll live on forever
Because I lied just now.
I didn’t write a single poem about you.
You are the kind of person who can’t ft into one poem.
You, you are worth odysseys, and stories, and grand myths
I could write novels about how your name fills my lungs like smoke.
And how my pulse seems to scream when your mouth hangs like a crooked painting.
I could write novels about how my hands will always search for yours in complete darkness, how you seemed to split open my heart
And I can’t stop the hemorrhaging of affection as it runs red rivers towards my fingertips.
My love, my dearest, my friend,
I could write hundreds of novels about you.
Just…You. And you’re magic ability to make me feel like my pieces aren’t just stitched up with trite promises and scotch tape.
This novel isn’t the biggest, and it won’t affect thousands of people,
But I’ll tell you right now that it affected me a thousands different ways.
A thousand different times.
—  maddyttotNovels

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.