Here lies our relationship,

gone too early

and never to be forgotten.

Dearly missed, 

by only one of us.

Here I am,, gazing at the wooden casket

that feels smooth beneath my fingertips. 

It’s open, which almost makes everything worse,

but to heal a wound you must continue stabbing it

until you adapt to the pain and each knife’s graze begins to feel like nothing.

Here I am:

hurting.

And here you are:

feeling nothing–

numb and cold,

a corpse in a casket yourself.

Here I am, staring at the ruins of our relationship, 

willing it to rise up like a phoenix and come back to life–

hoping, against my knowledge that what lies dead will lie dead forever, 

that our love will be revived. 

And wishful thinking is not something you can afford.

Here I am, crying with a crumpled ball of tissues in hand

and mourning our relationship,

the running mascara on my cheeks matching the funeral’s attire.

Here I am, admiring the facade of the corpse,

but criticizing it all the same:

the faux rouge on its cheeks to make it seem lively,

the clumpy mascara to distract from the missing eyeballs,

the pinned up hair to cover underlying wounds. 

And I hate how at a second’s glance this 

dead, dead corpse could appear to be alive.

But I hate that it’s not alive even more. 

So here I am – dressed in a black outfit

complete with a broken heart,

grieving the best thing that’s ever happened to me –

while you didn’t even bother to attend

the funeral of our relationship.