The Problem with Moving On

I know they’re right,
it’s already begun.

The bindings of blind preoccupation
are loosening their grip.
I feel the minutes stretch into hours, stretch into days,
between thoughts of him.
The dead space where I forget to remember.
Thoughts that once weighed heavy and oppressive,
forcing the air from my lungs,
taking everything I had to
keep on breathing,
– thoughts that now float like wisps of mist,
melt away with the first warmth of day.

The memory of his fingers against my ribs;
his kisses all teeth and urgency
are far beyond my reach, in that
there is no distinction now between
what was real and what was a dream.
I’m adrift among a sea of washed-out,
faded, photographed moments.
Moments, I am sure,
were the only seconds I ever lived.

Yet losing him was easy.
I had an empty bell-jar of a heart
to fill up with collected, broken pieces
of us.
Memories so vivid and raw,
that I still knew how desire smelled on his skin;
I could feel the words he washed me in;
still knew the colour of every touch.
I was consumed. I surrendered.
I belonged…
even if only to a ghost
of what was,
and what might have been.

But full of pitying looks and empty reassurance
they tell me
I’ll get over it;
get past him;
move on.

What makes them think I ever want to?

They use these words as if sticking plasters for
my tattered heart,
yet my broken pieces are the only thing holding
me together.

Yes, losing him was easy:
the worst is yet to come.
I am afraid of healed wounds,
when the pain is too distant to still recall,
when, I think of him,
and the most
I can feel

Soon it will all be gone,
never to be known again.

No, moving on is not for me.
I would sooner drown in the agony of losing him,
than ever forget why I hurt.



One thought on “The Problem with Moving On

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