Losing someone for good, or for as good as you think, feels like waking up from a beautiful dream only to discover it was not, in fact, real. You have this feel all day, not just the morning. The dream was what used to be, and the shocking reality is that it’s not anymore.
It feels like those mornings when you wake up, aching and disoriented from a night of binge drinking, and reach across the bed, only to find it empty, cold. You’re alone.
It feels like how the sky looks after a storm, bleak and white. It feels like the aftermath of a storm, debris everywhere, messy and in need of repair.
It feels like 3 AM, chain-smoking cigarettes until my lungs ache, staring at the pieces of myself surrounding me, and knowing that, for the first time, I have to put myself back together. Alone.
“I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn’t, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it’s the halves that halve you in half. I didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.”—Like Crazy
“Love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear;
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun, more last than star.”—e.e. cummings (via art-and-fury)
“It is all loneliness, the way you live. You get up and make the bed like you are trying to prove a point. You make coffee that is never quite right and never finish it. This is the third day you’ve worn this shirt. Eventually, you will paint your nails again, wash the grease from your hair. Once you have someone besides your own reflection to impress. You go to parties where you know you will only stay an hour. Lean quietly against the wall, watching people with enviably easy laughter. Your smile is a cracked boat in a flooded river. Close, but still useless. You do not talk to strangers, just sit there like a begging dog beside the dinner table, with eyes that say “Please, come, be my friend. I am a coward, but I’m hungry.”—Clementine von Radics, “But Lately” (via fawun)