Post Hoc Ergo Procter Hoc

And suddenly there is silence. A different kind of silence. Not the pause where you guess what the other is thinking or take comfort in hearing them breathe. An emptiness. All is quiet. All is still. The mind strays to those places it doesn’t recover from, a tendency that must be fought in the name of self-preservation. I can feel my heartbeat, an acute awareness. My feet cold on the stone floor. I should go to bed but I dread the waking from my dreams. Any minute now I’ll wake from this one. I wish I could save every word, and every absence of one. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can expel these emotions that mar the grace. But I embrace them; every last one of them is a faithful reminder. Even unfairness, even jealousy. Not that I need to be reminded. I couldn’t even sit through an extremely compelling play without going off, in the back of my mind, to mental reruns time and time again. I would hate to sound desperate. I hope my penmanship too falls into that singular understanding. It is what I think about and it is what comes out. It is what it is. Above everything, I am grateful. The seeming melancholy is inevitable. I am almost proud. Tomorrow everything will be different. For once, the past will be the healthier option. I will close my eyes and find myself lying on the grass, in the wintry sun, aware of the closeness, body and soul. I’ll know it was real, no photographs, no drawings, just a consciousness under my skin.
I miss you already.