Waves of darkness

come without warning.

They rise from somewhere deep inside me,

pulling me under

before I have time to remember

how to breathe.

For a moment,

I think I am standing on solid ground.

Then another wave comes.

I listen for an echo

of what we were,

for some small sound

that says I was not dreaming,

that the warmth was real,

that I did not imagine

having someone there.

Nothing answers back.

Night swallows the echoes.

Sometimes I am angry.

Sometimes I am numb.

Sometimes I miss you

with an ache so physical

I have to remind myself

that a broken heart

cannot actually bleed.

Those moments frighten me.

Because then the wave comes again,

and I am back beneath it,

gasping for the shape of a life

that no longer exists.

I cannot make the silence speak.

I cannot make the past return.

I cannot bargain with absence

until it becomes presence again.

So I sit here

with the empty spaces.

With the memories.

With the questions.

With the terrible tenderness

of having loved something

that ended,

something that was never real,

something built on lies.

Alone, still I grieve.

And tonight

that is all I can do.

Breathe.

Wait for the wave to break.

Wait for the darkness to loosen its grip.

Breathe again.