Love falls apart so swiftly. Somehow. With the slow drip of a leaky faucet it can move from fullness to trickle. Even the sink is wet from so many droplets of consistency, day in and day-out- ness. Conversations about groceries and schedules and laundry until the silence between drips becomes longer. Then, eventually, there is nothing puncturing the quiet. The sink dries. The water that was once me and you will evaporate and we too will be nothing.
I have never been in the room when someone dies. When the breathes come slower and less regularly until the lungs no longer muster the courage to try it again, one more time, just one more time. But I have first hand experience of other types of dying. The loss of a dream that seemed tangible for so long but becomes more and more fleeting; an island in the distance as a boat takes you out to sea. The confidence that once charged you forward growing harder and harder to muster, a marathon in which your legs exhaust in fear and dehydration and lactic acid, you must sit and watch others run by while you cheer them on. The feeling of wanting so desperately to bury your face in his neck, a longing physical and painfully sharp that turns to an ache and then, much like the sink, a nothingness.
When you get to the moment when a neck becomes just a neck and no longer a home you may as well pack your bags.
I’ve been in the room of love dying so often I feel like the Angel of Death. A scythe, small and sharp, hidden behind my back as I secretly peel my fingers and utter this prayer; “Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not again.”
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