To be focused is a struggle, and to be happy is a challenge. I stop writing to stop feeling, and I burn the photos of people I’ll never see again. I stay up too late because the traffic is too close, and I sleep in until noon because it makes me less of a day drinker. Am I wrong to “solve” my problems this way? I should say not, but then again, I’m known to tell myself what I want to hear.
When I turn to look for him and my neck cracks at the emptiness, I learn to stop looking around at people. Any morning that starts too soon becomes a heartbreak concert falling in decrescendo until I’m numb. I stitch the days into my fingers, aiming for 21. That’s all it’s supposed to take to break a bad habit, but I don’t believe it because seventy-four scars argue otherwise. But it’s just ten more nights until I should be four times healed, so I carry on. It’s been so long now that I don’t even notice the way I still look around when I hear your name.