Give me one single moment to take in what I’m going to endure.

As you breathe heavier and heavier, my shoulders grow even more tense.

10 years, missing 4, only witnessing the end, rather than the beginning.

That harness that would hold you back, keeping the line taught, and leaving you within loving distance.

Your final moments were the worst of my life.

You left me with a sigh of relief, as your burdens were lifted all at once.

They keep telling me I’ll be fine, but I don’t feel alright.

This yard feels empty, like my heart and every other security I would cling so tightly too.

You’re home now, kept in a box with your love and compassion is still represented by something physical.                                           

Six years straight, I’d always see you when I would open my eyes, but now you’re only there when they’re closed.

You were still warm when I left you, I could still feel life.

The fact that it wasn’t there haunts me.

I still talk to you, as if you’re not even gone.

The flowers we gave you are wilted over, pounded by rain.

The lawn that was once yours is now reduced to a corner.

I have no regrets as I see these shattered memories that were shattered by life itself.

I could never sleep through your snoring, you’d think I’d sleep fine by now.

But now, it’s the concept of you that leaves me awake at 3 am, 4 am, 5 am.

I’m sorry I didn’t feel grateful as often as I should have.

Like the love that grabbed us by the wrist as it sprinted down the sidewalk, I was caught so off guard.
I didn’t hold myself back like I thought I would, I let everything happen around me while I sat blankly waiting to wake up from the dream of being awake.