Gone

I feel a lurch when I think about what happened. I don’t purposely reminesce. It’s your name on my screen.

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Sad

I’m disappointed
that you’re disappointed,
that it’s not enough to be plain
or whatever it is that clothes me,
white-washed, worn.
And the cold, it’s seeping in
through fingers bent over a keyboard
(you’re not one for conversation).
Don’t let it freeze what’s in my veins;
I’m too young to be tentative,
too young to be afraid,
but I think I might just get used to
monophony.
Whilst loneliness is promiscuous
and easy to please
(she’ll take anyone)
I’m partial to your jaded self.
You colour me bitter and blue
and that’s infinitely better
than white-washed.

Cathexis

kəˈTHeksis/
noun

PSYCHOANALYSIS
  1. the concentration of mental energy on one particular person, idea, or object (esp. to an unhealthy degree).

Sometimes, I get so wound up about something that happened I can’t stop thinking about it. It doesn’t happen often but when it does the emotions are on replay. They are insistent. A really good memory will come to mind and occupy hours of my day. I catch the scent, a reminder of a person or a place and I am immediately overwhelmed by a combination of feelings and snapshots. The summary of Autumn; it’s crispness and comfort, or the high of being around special people (my besties) or his crinkly smile and choppy laughter. A bad memory or incident will lodge itself into the tranquility of the ocean that is my mind and dirty its waters. Merciless and tyrannical.
Cyclic thoughts keep the ghosts around – things that should already be long gone. Sometimes, the good memories that are supposed to make me happy make me upset. Because they aren’t real. Well, some of them aren’t. Because in a desperate effort to remember and because I can’t bare to lose the moments I’ll never have again, I fill in the dark spots with what I think should have happened and what I think he might’ve said. Dwelling on the good is no longer good when all it does is lure you into the past. And the past is an inherently sad place, replete with all that can never truly be retrieved.

I wonder how I’m going to deal with the death of somebody I love.