At the end of all things

It was raining that night. The night I saw you standing at the edge, at the end of all things. I cried out to you, but you were beyond hearing. Nothing I could do would change anything.

Now, filled with the restlessness of a grieving man, I move from town to town, revisiting the places we once stayed, sitting alone in the rooms that were once filled with our laughter.

Those who know better look on in sorrow, watching me grasp smoke and memories for a last taste of you.

In the thick of the night my stomach lies in knots, waiting for the time when I’ll know beyond all certainty that you're gone. That nothing I will ever do will bring you back. 

I woke up startled the other night. My mind had finally caught up, and all I could feel was pain. And these bright winter lights, they bring my thoughts to you. 

I knew your blood well. It ran with you, drove you. I knew it as if it was mine. The taste of skinned knees in summer, the colour of it on white, on yellow, on blue, the tears that left it to fend for itself.

I have your blood on my hands.

I have your blood on my hands. Your arms around my heart. Your voice in my head. 

I woke up screaming the night before last. I gasped and began to weep, crying for you to unhand me.

The most terrible thing is, I don't want you to.

The snow on the path hasn't changed since the last season we were together.

The lights in the windows still look the same. 

Spring still comes early, children still run out to the streets in the brisk mornings, laughing in the thin sunshine, dancing in the promise of summer.

There are days when I don't think I can make it. Days when the weight of the memory of you becomes too much, so much that my lungs ache. Ache because you are not the breath that fills them.

You changed my world.

Changed the way I see. Changed the way I see life.

But you could never be as real in my head as you were then. Full of life. Before the winters, the falling of the leaves, the mellow drowsy heat, before the unbearable heat, at the budding.

Back when you were you, and not just a memory.