You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

And then for the first time

in weeks

you truly laugh.

You don’t feel

the lingering weight

of grief of your shoulders.

You laughter carries

through the heartache

and the pain.

But

you look over

to see their beautiful face

laughing with yours,

and reality

comes crashing back down again.

They are not there.

It hurts

all over again,

like a fresh wound.

How could you be happy

when they

are gone?

You hate yourself for

forgetting

their absence.

You hate yourself for

being happy

without them there.

Your love

has nowhere to go.

It hurts.

It aches.

It doesn’t stop bleeding.

Then

it gets easier,

for a while,

you partner with ignorance

to get by.

You are going on

just fine,

even as your heart

is bleeding from the inside out,

and you are fine

for days, weeks, months.

You carry the grief

as a part of your body,

while not acknowledging

what it is actually doing to you.

Then it hits you.

You are doing the most

mundane thing

and you wish they were there

with you.

You feel robbed

and stabbed

all over again.

Your chest is heaving for air,

lungs constricting, collapsing,

you haven’t breathed

a full breath since they’ve been gone.

No matter how many times

this happens

you still have plenty more tears

to dry you out.

Then you

are exhausted

and you don’t let yourself feel,

because it is too much.

It is so much.

But you don’t face it

every day.

You don’t face it at all.

Not until it hits you like a train.