Vase ...

I have been choking on the lump in my throat for quite some time now. And the temporary relief of lust has lost its touch as well. I realize now, lust is nothing but the bottom of the emptiest vase, with the void above filled with unperceivable loneliness. It's like a child's fleeting obsession with the new toy. You can never be sure how long it's going to last, but you know it will dry out eventually. My heart has been surviving at the bottom and every effort I've made to climb back up has been in vain. For someone who has not felt the dryness of their own veins in their throat, this is not for you. You are the lucky ones. You do not have to excuse yourself from a conversation because suddenly, in the middle of a regular busy day, you are reminded of all the "what ifs" that could have possibly existed. You do not go to sleep haunted by the memories of her sleeping beside you, her hands clutching on to your shirt because she fell asleep on your chest listening to your childhood stories. You will never drown in nostalgia like I do.
So I pull up the covers, call in sick for the n-th time, and just lay in bed wishing I had the words to shroud my helplessness. The smell of you is gone. The wrinkles on the sheets are gone. You're gone. And I'm still here, longing for a place, a person, a version of reality, that I know doesn't even exist.