at the age of twenty-four, i will stand at the foot of my bed and stare down at the single imprint in the mattress
where my body laid for four days.
as a profession of loneliness,
my sheets will be tangled in knots from where i tossed and turned all night
on the idea that my life would be like this forever.
days in eternity
where the sunrise at daybreak didn’t indicate the finding of a new light
but rather the finding of yet another day alone
a day of frivolous sentiments and flipping through boxes that after eight years shouldn’t hurt me anymore.
i’m still only seventeen
but i feel like this has already happened.
they said that true love would come naturally but they didn’t say it would leave forever as easily.
leaving a romantic at heart to be a wreck at life
haphazardly stumbling into dusty photo albums looking for an answer.
i’m afraid it will be like this forever.
and i’m only seventeen.
my greatest fear used to be losing you
but now i’m sure it’s that i’ll never find you again
and i guess i have to make peace with that before my last day at twenty-three
because apparently arbitrary deadlines give me a purpose laden with unintended anxiety.
and i’m working on being okay with being alone by filling my head with static tunes and calling it progress.
because twenty-four is coming before i’d like to admit it and i don’t even know what this number means.
i sat on the reality of you leaving for twenty-four months- two years.
and my recovery is this right here.
this right now.
because i haven’t overcome my fears yet.
because i haven’t learned to make peace with them. with the idea of you being gone.
but i’ve been able to live with it for this long.
and so what if it takes more than twenty-four?
i will untie those sheets and fold them away nicely before i have the chance to drown in them.
i will sleep at different corners of the bed to make it feel fuller.
and so what if it doesn’t work?
trying is what makes love possible, right?