≡≡≡continued from here≡≡≡
Steve doesn’t linger, despite how much I might like him to. You know, just to catch up, ask how he’s been…find out if he ever married. With the hurricane approaching, he has 101 things he needs to do and catching up with me is definitely not one of them, and I completely understand. I always have. Which is probably why he fell for Mandy. The big difference between me and Mandy was that she always put her heart into everything, and while my heart was on the playing field, I always kept it sheltered. Continue reading
This was written for dVerse. Thanks, Frank, for today’s prompt of heartbreak and frustration.
Photo by Sascha Darlington, Deep Dream Generated
Summer and Dog
The day is short
cicadas and crickets Continue reading
Be my guest, it’s fine.
There’s nothing here
Except a Sarah Vaughn album
I’ve nearly worn out
Playing through heartbreak
or cooking his trout before
he decided enough is enough of what
I don’t know that was not in my score
Although the libretto seems familiar
In that way when things feel off-kilter
And strangely apart from society
Or the norms in their khakis
And button downs, me, I’m imagining crowns
On heads, princesses, broken glass slippers,
Bloodied feet. No, be my guest, finally we meet.
Break up. It’s the worst. How often we’ve heard that! The sadness. The tears. The breaking heart like glass cracking. We’ve all been there. We think we’ll never heal. We do. We go on.
There are sunny days, fragrant flowers, hand-holding, muchness.
New partners. New lovers. Newness.
The worst? Let me introduce you to death. It snatches. It grabs. It removes. What you loved is no longer.
It’s not that they’ve moved out or taken up with a younger woman or an older man or a new owner with better kibble.
They’ve been scratched out.
Maybe for a moment before their body is removed, you can hold on. Just a second until you feel the stone coldness seep from them to you and realize that everything that made up that relationship will exist only in memories and photographs and silken or angry or arbitrary words that you composed because that’s what you do.
There’s no tantalizing idea of a phone call, drunk dial or not, but maybe a call to hear their voice one last time (or multiple melancholic times) or watch the video of the pup that you took accidentally because you didn’t realize you were no longer just taking photos.
You move on. Time softens the edge, but the edge still remains. It’s a different kind of breaking up. A shattering of the heart. A stilling silence. Irreversible loss.
(c) Sascha Darlington