We are, by nature, a bit masochistic. When wounded, we waste no time before peeking beneath the bandage, picking at the stitches, and poking at the raw skin as it attempts to conceal the gaping hole in our chests.
We know we need to let go, we know we need to let the wound heal. But the cavernous void makes it apparent that we’re less than we were before.
Some days we feel phantom pains. We may find ourselves parked outside the old house, unaware of how we got there but more than aware that these walls no longer feel like “home”.
Some days we roll over in the night reaching for the body that no longer occupies the other half of the bed. We’ll attempt to fill the vacancy with other bodies, but none of them fit quite right. None of them curve around you in quite the same way. None of them whisper a sleepy I love you when wrapping themselves tighter in the nest of blankets.
Some days we compose messages that refuse to be delivered, so we roll them tight before dropping it into a bottle, jamming a cork in the top, and throwing it to the darkness.
Maybe it’ll find it’s way to you, maybe it won’t. The hope is that, in the time it takes for this to happen (or not), our missing pieces will be replaced and the wounds will heal.
But we have to let them.