I still wear his t-shirt to bed.
Yesterday a friend asked me if I still loved him, and I could not reply because of the sheer disgust.
I sputtered, made an angry face and refused to answer and the tears.
And deep down, I knew why I could not say an emphatic No!
There is a deep disgust in me for myself. Nothing new really, now it just has a definite shape and size, and it is made out of cotton and I need to hold it to be able to sleep.
I thought I was stronger. I have been through worse. Much worse.
But you know what the problem with violent endings is?
There are no levels. You don’t step over from happiness to a sadder place to an even sadder place and then onwards. It is just happy, and then unhappy.
With the abyss yawning in between and no way of knowing the depth of it.
You just remember, and the memories refuse to leave you alone. Puzzling thing -memory. Puzzling, frustrating, ache-inducing thing.
Why do I wear his t-shirt to bed? Because that used to represent ‘happy’. Strange anchors for a floating world.
I need to clean my closet.