stripped me down to bone and marrow.
It dug my heart out of my body with sharp talons
And flung it, bloodied, onto the ground
A sharp bladed axe,
Such as was used for beheadings in the days of Henry VIII
Hacked away at that bloodied heart of mine on the ground.
Slicing and dicing it into miniscule pieces.
It took effort and determination and grit
And all the Love he left behind for me,
To string those pieces of you and me together.
My heart doesn’t look the same now, as it did when it was full in my chest.
I don’t look the same as I did all the years of our together lives.
I am stripped raw.
That isn’t a bad thing.
Or a good thing.
It’s just what I am now.
I’m still dislocated. Dispossessed. Disoriented. Displaced. In dissaray.
I’m okay with all this, too.
In a world where nothing is okay because you are no longer in it…
I’m weirdly okay.
Living and missing you. Living while missing you with each breath. Living. And missing.
Empty and filled with Love for you.
I don’t try to reason any of it out any longer.
Perhaps that is the true freedom that comes with grief.
In the truest, most loving, strongest way of letting go…
It is letting go of people’s expectations of me.
People’s opinions of me.
People’s anything of me.
Or judgement of myself.
I’m just me.
Still, and always, in Love with a dead man.
With a heart open to Love every day.
No matter what.
Aching with Love.
Aching for you.