My stuffed animals are all squished up under the sides of my bed, marginalized in the emotional struggle that ensconced the usually cheerful purples and greens of my comforter. They bore witness to the back and forth that broke his heart, or fractured it at least. I’m so very sorry.

I am a spigot of emotions that is slowly leaking
Sputtering with droplets of alternating happy
and then sad thoughts,
wondering when the omniscient hand that turned me on (but only so slightly)
is going to let me flood this garden of melancholy or
tighten the valve.
Plug the leak.
Caulk the fractured edges with love, hope, forgiveness, fear
Some patch to make this hose flow with life again.

I’m sorry.

Dave says, “life is short but sweet for certain,” but how does he know – is that guaranteed – can I get my money back yet? Maybe this well of rust-stained water occupying my stomach serves a purpose that will eventually be “sweet.” Maybe I’ll come to grow a red-tinted flower that blooms only because I’ve wallowed in sadness and given in to self doubt.

Sometimes I want to be able to see the last page in this chapter, to know what’s going to happen to lessen the fear/sorrow/tears now, but right now I really want to revel in this rush of actual, real emotions that let me know I’m alive and breathing and real. But not for long, I’m sure – tomorrow I’ll want to flip through some pages and get this part over already.

How is it possible to feel both severely empty and really full at the same time?

Did I mention that I’m sorry?