3 weeks since I was told and fell to the floor.
2 weeks of three Xanax a day and it's barely softening the edges of the chasm I long to fall into.
1 week of realizing how fucked up I've been by what my boss said.
Already terrified I didn't love you enough to save you, he made me question whether I loved you enough to deserve mourning you out loud or at all. Like my grief and guilt weren't enough.
I couldn't go to your funeral. If it were just travel or cost, I would have sold an organ. Not like any of them work great anyways. But I knew what I would do to them. With my pain and my rage and my jealousy. They got to be with you any day they wanted. And they wouldn't help you. HE got to be with you every day. And he hurt you and threatened you.
I'll never get to hug you. I keep saying that. But I can't move past it. I love you so much. We talked at every opportunity. Sang for each other. Shared our writing and art and hyperfixations and fears. Talked each other off the ledge. I tried so hard to make you feel safe and loved. I was serious about getting you to move here. But we didn't get to that part. We never met in person.
I don't like physical touch as much as others. You loved cuddling anyone and anything. I would have tried my best. Cuddle until my skin crawled too much. We would have braided each other's hair. Leaned against each other while crafting away. Squeezed hugs at every hello and goodbye.
I'll never know if your hugs are as wonderful as they look.
