Each day my love is darker than the day before, I awake each morning to the empty feeling that you are no longer next to me. So many mornings when you slept softly next to me, even then long befour the blood and doctors the fear griped me that one day your breath would stop. I never thought I would kiss you with your final breath.
Merry Christmas My Love
I am drawn back to when my endless days spread into counted tomorrow’s, there was comfort in an end date even when it was far off. The days now blead one into another with no reprieve on the horizon. I don’t know what feeds it now; before. Your gentle hand, oh my Love your sweet gentle fingers spiderwebbing tips mapping distant worlds across my farrowed brow.
In my visions I see you often at the stove working over the evening’s
diner, it was never something I asked you to do but you did it just the dame.
My fingers long to encircle your waist once more, to turn our face to mine, my
hand gently cupping your face letting my lips find yours. I can taste you, a
hint of oregano filled with the unmistakable flavor of Jill.
I told you when we were first together that I wanted to know
you like a well-loved book…
There was so much, much more.
My Love, my heart aches to no ends. Life has become a prison that the only release from is death. The sorrow is eating me up inside my love and I do not know where it ends. When you found me, I thought where I was there was no way for me to find the surface, you were so kind and gentle a touch.
You were so right when you said that were soulmates at the
time the words were lost in the throngs of long drives to chemo appointments or
doctors visits followed by tears, tears, each time I looked deep into your beautiful
brown eyes and lied to you each time convincing
you that everything will be all right that we would be all right, that you were
not a can of soup and didn’t have an expiration date.
When I lost you, I lost me.
Jill more than a flower loves the sun, more than a child love its mother, or heat loves the fire; I love you.
When does love die?
When do you put away the past?
When does your heart stop dying?
I have been behind many doors’ wooden ones, metal ones, from
comforting, to dreadful each one its own key, each one found in time. My Love
you left me behind a door with no handle or hinges, I can’t live alone in the
dark.
I cannot leave you, staying with you now is lit kerosene in
my lungs, you come to me now on the whisper of a song, each sweet bite taking
me deeper into the dark; the absence of you.
I did not know you when I took that bus, but you knew me
better than I had even known myself.
The weight of all the would haves, could haves, and should haves
bear down on me my Love.
In
a month and a half, it would have been our wedding anniversary. My love passed
away 477 days ago and everyday my insides burn like molten iron. I don’t know
what I feal anymore, it was all so simple for so long and I had the foolish dream
that it would stay that way, that I would have a chance to grow old with the
woman I love.
There
is a never-ending sea of pain where my Love once was, a blackness so dark and
deep I don’t know where it ends and where I begin.
I
had thought about writing again, but I don’t see any fiction in my future.
How long can water be trod until the strength seeps out bleeding into the surrounding blackness.
