Even knowing you don’t, I can’t help but.
I covered my face – though no one but god was watching – and sobbed, the water of the shower washing my tears down the drain, wasted just like my feelings. I blew my nose in my palm and washed that down the drain, too. I slapped myself.
Snap out of it. Don’t spend yourself.
Well, I have to afford it. The grief shows me that I am not cold, isolated, or bitter.
I felt the imagined loss as if it was real, and I mourned it. I mourned you and the believed-death of beauty in potentia. I asked myself why? Because I do, and I can’t help but.
Beth Bishop 