I sit.
I sit. And I sip. And I want to go back.
Not back really, for I don’t wish to unlearn the things I’ve gathered since I’ve grown.
I want to bring you forward.
I want you alongside me. Enjoying this life together like I’d always imagined.
My grief is the same in that way. I grieved your loss long before you died.
I hoped and longed for you to grow along with me, even as I watched you wither away slowly.
I longed then, as I do now, to have you beside me as we grew and conquered life together.
I wanted you with me for every moment. All of the happiness and joy, every moment shared.
All of the sadness and disappointment, finding comfort in the presence of one another.
But that wasn’t enough for you.
You couldn’t let go of the need to fix it all and ensure that no one you loved ever felt pain again.
You couldn’t live with the fact that you couldn’t fix it.
And so you died.
And my grief intensified, but it remained the same.
My grief did not begin with your death.
Your death was the end of my hope.
And now, I sit and I sip, experiencing the half-joy of a quiet morning without you.
The tether of my hope that once held onto you now blowing in the wind
Unattached to any future
Just empty space, cold and dark
This is the end of hope
