plus qu’hier moins que demain

Why is it so difficult? I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone about it.

He is gone and he is not coming back.

God, it’s so hard to type this out, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know why I’m writing this.

I will never laugh with you again. I can never hear your voice again. I am never going to see your self again.

It has been raining every evening since you went away. I never saw the rain start, because where I am, I can’t see it until I get out of the building. But on that morning when we sent you off, it was sunny and it was hot and the air was still. It seemed like a mockery of what I feel inside, what we all feel inside.

Sometimes I unconsciously reach for the phone to text you, to drop you my typical cheer-up messages, to ask about you. Today I typed in your email address in a mail and froze. My heart contricted painfully for a really long time. Noone saw how the tears welled up in my eyes, noone saw my trembling fingers erasing your address away, I think I hid it pretty well.

I want to talk about you, but I cannot because the words the tumbling emotions the unstable thoughts, they are all stuck inside. All I can talk about is what I do, or almost did, and nothing about feelings and what happened and the million questions and thoughts which are jostling for space in my mind.

Perhaps things would be more bearable if I could remember, really remember, that you’re gone and never forget it.

But I can’t do it. Not now.

s t a r m | s t November 23rd, 2006

• the core