Hypothetical
This would be easier if they could just dissolve like the pill under my tongue; if I could somehow just starve the thought of them until they were thin enough to fall out of my ear. I wouldn’t have feverish dreams about writing prayers on the back of their plane tickets. I wouldn’t cast my entire life down a well in hopes they make a wish. I wouldn’t rewind miles of string just to keep finding it was never tied to anything. I wouldn’t read their favorite books more than they do. I wouldn’t face the likelihood of perishing before them like a mother dying in childbirth. I wouldn’t pretend to hate them while feeding their memories with little scraps of fondness. I wouldn’t preserve the people that left without bearing the burden of leaving.
I probably wouldn’t even write about them.
