Oh Weary My Soul...

I mourn the death of us and all we were before our tragedy; before words were too poisonous, before silence was infiltrated with static...before tongues bit instead of loved, before mouths met instead of slung empty rhetoric and ruthless razor blades...before fingers clawed instead of exploring the console of your car to find each other. What we had is the kind of love people spend their whole lives wishing for. It was such a beautifully composed tragedy.

I held a crystal vase in my hands. God gave it to my hands; for my hands alone. I loved it immeasurably; it was unique. It was so intricately crafted. It was as timeless as it was rich, it held stories, and sorrows-it knew every laugh and every fear. It was breathtaking and bold. Each element of it glistened with romance and bliss and magical symphonic notes with trills and glorious hues of color; it was a dynamic reflector of light.

Until one day...it shattered.

I dropped it.

I watched the pieces cascade across floor, mourning every one. Shards of glass were all that remained of my blessing-my most precious gift. No-matter how hard I tried, I couldn't put the pieces back together again. So I laid down against the glass and let it tear into my skin because without it I am only half...I wanted to keep it...to feel it in my blood even if it hurts. And I want to feel him against my skin again; where breath or sweat or words might mix with laughter or tears. Because even at his worst he's the best. And I could live the rest of my life with him at his worst every day just to have the honor of loving him.