Saudade

I cannot see beyond my love for her. I am saturated with it. She is the kind of girl you would write stories for, poems. Would that have kept her here? Would it have mattered at all? 

Some days it is like I am trying to dredge all that love up like a sickness, sweat it out like a fever. I draw a bath and lay in the water until it goes cold, until he finds me half-conscious and lifts me naked and shivering, my wet hair dripping puddles as he carries me across the room.  What are we but storytellers, writing our own endings in order to forget the beginnings we cannot bear to remember. I want her still. I want her today, tomorrow, next week, next month, for the foreseeable eternity. I go mad with yearning. There are not nearly enough drugs to smoke, to snort, to swallow, to make me forget how much I still want her but I try. I swear I will die trying and she will hate me all the more for it (is it possible for her to hate me more?) 

Some days I hope she has found peace. Free from the shadow I cast over her life. Other days I hope that I haunt her. I hope she also has to live with the thoughts of this alternate reality: the one where I make her blueberry pancakes in bed, the one where we are happy together.