There was a time.

Matt moved out a week and half ago. I can't yet bring myself to be in the kitchen for more than five minutes without it reminding me of the endless dinners we cooked together, hugging with wet hands and the sound of pots clanging. My kitchen has been heaven. I feel like I have lost a limb. The kitchen remained relatively untouched when he left, most of the art and dish ware is mine but my kitchen seems to have suffered more than I have. I come across some of his white shirts in my laundry and I smell the arm pits-weeze-goodbye. You could grind his lack of presence down and make diamonds that could scratch glass. I guess there is so much I took for granted, so much to be missed and I can't help but wonder, how the human being be so resilient? You think you will never get over it, and I know that pain doesn't heal all wounds but there is something dulling about the nature of pain. Pain on pain on play repeating--with a back up life in waiting. I guess when you are lost in the woods, it takes you a while to realize you really are lost. Also, there is nothing terribly glamorous about being alone. After all of my laundry is done, washed with perfect lilac detergent, the carpets are clean, and we will leave the dishes will be left out of this as they have been neglected in the dark cavern of this phantom life I insist I used to have. What is there really to do? I wanted: "to spend time with myself, get to know myself better" I think I might have known myself a little better when you were here.

I swear to god I can hear machine guns in the living room tearing up the fire place, puncturing the dry wall drowning out the sound of your body crunching on the carpet. The light switches are broken, this memory is tracing a picture of a heart over and over again, each ventricle one at a time.

And then I realize, conceited independence is like hollandaise. Deliciously decadent, till it stops your heart.