Apart of me felt like he robbed me of my beauty. Apart my youth. As if I refused to look in the mirror for so long that when I did glance, my skin had aged, my mouth and eyes were tired. The vibrancy and excitement has bled from me.
Small vivid images a twenty something on tour stealing pieces of my being every time he came through my city, standing in front of a window telling me how they are often barred to avoid suicide jumpers from hotel windows. He filled his pipe in thought, he looked down and said out loud, “They must not worry about that here.”
The feeling of my face against a chest for three years. The chest of a man who brought home flowers whenever he was caught in the chest . . of another man.
Holding hands with a friend who used those hands to open whatever bag, bottle or container to take his very own last breath…
Even my inner dialogue has grown cautious of waking up the grim inside my chest. Convincing it’s physical self to look away.