Still Here, But Not.

 I'm still finding your hair when I clean.  A strand here and there, not as much as in the beginning.  It's like you're still here.  I feel  it drift across my hand and land so softly.  I see how strong it is yet curved in my hand seeking shelter.  I squeeze it like I don't want to let you go, but you're gone.  I close my grip somehow wishing wherever you are, you would feel my touch on your shoulder or your face.  A wish I play over and over, each time I find your hair, here.

The rip is still exposed, so many questions, so many needs, so many wants, abandoned. Why did you have to be broken, you were perfect. Or at least perfect in my mind, a mind which wanted so desperately to wish away the damage.  I climbed high because your love is so deep, I wanted to be so high I couldn't see what I didn't want to see.  

Time heals all they say, but how can time heal something that has no end.  You're not here to touch, but I remember how you smell.  I remember the pain, but in order to remember the pain I remember the love.  While I train myself to remember why I can't, I'm bombarded with why I want to.  The opposites can't exist without each other, so either I love you and be in pain or being in pain without you while my love for you exists. Both are hell.

This fight of oil and water are stuck. I am the jar imprisoning them, shaking them, trying to stir away the pain and chasing a dream they will mix so I can feel your face in my hand again. I want something I can't make happen.  A prison in and of itself, tortured by these strands of hairs, here.  The torment of having a few good days then finding one and becoming frozen, staring at it, wishing I could pull on it and pull you from where you are to right in front of me and knowing all the while it will never happen. Whichever devil created this cell, did well.

All I can do is remain silent. Do you know what it feels like to squeeze a crying heart and tell it not to cry anymore?  The pressure against your hand, the heat, the stifled beats and whimpering vibrating up your arm forcing all the thoughts of all the good times, stinging you with heated moments of passion trying to get you let go and scream out your name and run...to her.   

I feel like our love, beyond the dark, was my whole life summed up in her first name. So I don't clean my place perfectly each time so I can keep finding your hair, here.  It makes me feel like you're still here, but not.