Losing love is the feeling of torn skin, pulling back, back, back -- thick, jarring--even if numb at first--and guaranteed to heal into a surface that not even the cleanest tear can salvage.
It is the cool valley of a mattress that one rolls into like a landslide -- one minute, tossing and turning in sleep; the next, face down in a crevice created by the wholeness of a body. A singular inhabitant of a once sacred place.
It is one less cup of coffee poured behind a counter, in a kitchen, sipped with legs crossed over legs on a couch.
It is a heavy heart -- dead weight in one's arms, slipping with gravity, and leaking at each seam.
It is a hand left hanging in mid-air, or grasping at nothing amongst a crowd.
It is a book in place of a person at a restaurant table.
It is half a load of laundry; half the quarters, half the weight in fabric and all the weight of the world.
It is one less pair of eyes absorbing a moving picture in a dark room.
It is a car losing control on a desolate road.
It is the habitual act of looking back, the disbelief of looking forward, the eyes sealed shut within the present.
It is one breath in, and a delayed breath out.
It is a story that, at first, feels completely undone; but in retrospect is a page turned.
It is breathing on one's own. Delay and all. A hollow lung that's forgotten it's capacity to give life.
It's learning to sit in silence, and learning to sing a new song.
It is asking for help, and building new boundaries.
It is a fresh coat of paint, even if over a beautiful color.
It is a charged credit card and not enough closet space.
It is learning a new face.