Young Writers Society

1 Year Later


I can still sense you know, whenever the memory hits the hardest. I can feel the weight-
the weight of the words that protrude ever so heavily out of my mouth when I open myself up,
and express myself to someone who didn't know this life changing event in my life. 
To get some half heart-ed remark of sympathy, to see their eyes dart away and their hand grasp 
my arm- as if to show some kind of support that they, and I, know will never fill the emptiness that 
I try to soak up by entertaining myself with other people in places I don't belong. 

It all feels like a dream, but when I'm alone, the realization that I blame myself, is a heavy burden. 
When I'm asleep, or passed out from a stupor, I can still feel it. You silky smooth hand in mine, the way I held you, ever so teasingly so you couldn't get away, if only for another minute or two,
the way I pleaded for you to spend the day home, and the way your hair spattered across your face whenever you sat up and said ten more minutes. Your giggle chilled me to the bone- and 
looking back on it, even in anger, I realize, I should've told you to go. 
I made breakfast- a souffle of sorts- while you didn't even try to look as beautiful as you did whenever you walked in the room. The persuasion that came forth, at least to you, was too charming of an offer to refuse- so you stayed.

Half an hour later, you were late. You smiled and teasingly snapped at me, reminding me of 
the day, and I grudgingly agreed it could wait. You kissed me, for the last time- and even now, I can still hear the haunting echo of the last time you said you loved me. You grabbed your car keys, and with a wink and a promise you'd be back, you disappeared out the front.