recluse

the ones we love never really leave us:

I suppose we could find comfort in that, but I heave a silent resignation, a small, quiet voice letting out a sigh, that this is it, this is all I get for the rest of my life, without you. I get the tears that I can't hold back when I'm alone with blasts from the past reeling in my head, playing back memory after memory. I get the sharp pangs of longing and self reproach going back and forth in a tug of war of who's to blame and coming to hurtful conclusions that cowardice is still the ultimate winner. I get the desperate calls for affection, I get the ghost of you. This is me disappear i  n   g

And yet,

I suppose it's okay. That even without you life goes on. There are still friends to be met and work to be done. Places to escape to momentarily while trying to lose you in nature's beauty while feeling completely overwhelmed by this insatiable urge... to talk and talk and talk, mumbling and fumbling; trying to decode this dynamic that's clasped itself tightly around my heart, choking and leaving me wide awake at night jolted awake from nightmares that spring in numbing fear.

I've lost you in a million moments,

but I suppose you have too.