Is this real? Is this happening? Oh god. It is.
Spiraling down into darkness, melting into despair, dissolving into the fetal position. Breathing. Every breath hurts—like a hot knife stabbing the lungs. Tears don’t come. Not yet. A layer of shock covers, protecting, but not for long.
Reality breaks the numbness. No more touching. No more kissing. No more tender words. No more love. What was is simply no more. And then, on a random intake of breath, the pain explodes. The grief comes rushing out in a fit of racking sobs that twist the gut into a thousand knots. They come in waves until they can come no more. The body is whipped, drained, spent. Restless sleep engulfs. But it doesn’t last. Upon waking it all comes rushing back. The cycle continues. The agony—both metal and physical—a hair’s breadth from unbearable.
A week, nineteen days, three months or more pass. Finally, a good day allows the sun to break though and warm the soul before it plunges back into the depths of despair. Then two good days grant respite. And the darkness invades again. The pattern continues for who knows how long, until the realization dawns: despair days haven’t visited for a week and a half. Strangely the heart crunches at this, grieving the grief of a great love.
Ever so slowly time, the great healer, does its work and thoughts of the cherished one no longer wield that angry knife that pierces the lungs. Instead a calm sadness lingers that will forever pay homage to the death of a great love.