To say that I miss you is akin to referring to a hurricane as a ‘slight breeze’, an earthquake ‘a mere shudder’, a tsunami ‘a bit of a splash’.
Your absence has rendered my insides hollowed out. As though my organs have been ripped from my core by vicious hands. My lungs are squeezed in a vice, and I can barely draw air.
How is it possible that a heart so tormented continues to beat? That this life force persists on pounding through these crumbling veins? There is not a cell in my body that does not scream in denial of your leaving.
I claw the air – in the vain hope of capturing your essence. Your scent. Your spirit. Or ripping out the eyes of Fate.
I crave the weight of your body on mine. Your arm across my shoulder. Your head in my lap. And I die, piece by tiny piece. As the knowledge of your irreversible departure seeps into my brain. Like acid. Burning this unacceptable truth into a soul that has no power to extinguish the pain.
Your absence has become this ugly monstrous thing that sits in the room with me. Mocking me. I begin to whisper, begging you to return. For surely this cannot be true? Then later, gently pleading for my own sweet demise, so that I too can be absent with you. But the monster simply roars with thunderous laughter.
© Michele Harrod October, 2010