OLGA. there is always something surreal about the passing of a loved one; well, there is to me. I WONDER AT MY OWN POSSIBLE COLDNESS. in my mind, no one is ever quite gone the way grief insists that they are. instead, for months and years after, i still fully expect that this person will come home one day. or i will walk into a room and find them there, sitting in the afternoon sunlight as if they’d been there all along. 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚕? i suppose it could be, but i rather doubt it.
ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴜꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴜʀ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ. yet, i cannot bring myself to ever admit that they will be gone forever. not when i can remember the sound of their laughter, the shape of their smile, the way they take their coffee, or how the colour of robin eggs looks on them in the summertime. LOVE REMAINS, and so do i.
all day, i had followed her like a pale shadow, not receiving more than a handful of words in return for all my questions. now, we sit in silence by the edge of the pool, watching the moon’s reflection traverse slowly across the dark surface. my hands are useless in my lap, fingers picking at each other just for something to do. “ IF YOU WANT ME TO GO, I WILL, but i won’t go very far. ” / [ @roziver ]
