Sense.

I jerked awake, my phone buzzing beneath my pillow, anchoring me to reality. I hit the stop button, the first time in weeks, instead of the snooze button and instinctively reach up to touch my face. Dampness. From sweat? Tears? A combination of both?

It was a dream, I told myself. And it’s weird and I can’t begin to literate it, even in my mind while it’s so fresh, but I remember you. Your face. An image I desperately cling to as if I knew I was never going to see you again. As if you were secretly saying your final goodbye with the painted smile on your face, young and fresh but so full of pain. And there was a voice in the back of my head, yelling for me to do something, anything, to stop you. As is a part of me  deep down, knew what you were about to do.

Awake and free from the fog and the blurriness of dream, I think it must have been what it was like for you in your last moments, your mind made up and unchangeable.

If my face had not been damp from tears then, the realization that it wasn’t something that I was afraid you’d do, but something that you’d done, brought upon a wave of tears from within that I couldn’t stop. The kind that rouses something primal from within that you cannot contain and spills over without any vestige of control.

I lay there. Completely immobilized. A pathetic lump of tears and fears and shadows of the past creeping into the present.

And that was when it hit me. Or grazed against me, more like. The lightest breeze that carried you, your smell. And I had to double, treble check that you weren’t actually there next to me. And as swiftly as it came, it left, like dust in the morning light as your eyes adjusted to the rays of the newborn sun.

I barely had the time. Barely any time at all to seek it’s touch. Inhale it fully. Revel in the precious wave of something that was so profoundly you. I ‘m not making sense. But I sense you around me today.

“By now, you should know enough about loss to realize that you never really stop missing someone – you just learn to live around the huge gaping hole of their absence ”
Alyson Noel, Evermore.

Advertisements

There are no comments on this post.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: