I can’t even begin to imagine how much things will change after you’re gone. Instead of being your future ex-wife, I’ll be the widowed. The one that can’t wear makeup for months because as soon as I finish putting it on, I look at myself in the mirror and reminisce on the many times I’d get all dolled up for you, bawling and smudging my face with black again. Then, I’d call it quits, cancel my plans, and instead end up changing into your clothes and sit in the bed that was once ours, wrapped around a jar that holds your preserved heart or hands or eyes, sobbing to myself again. And of course, I’d notice that tiny little jasper heart that I can’t seem to remove from our bed and cry harder because no matter how long it was in your mouth while you were alive, I can’t taste you on it anymore. And oh, that’s all I want.
But soon your clothes stop smelling like you and I have to wash the sheets. But I can’t manage to forget what your touch felt like and my whole body aches from craving it just one more time. The warmth drains from me and I’m left feeling just as cold and lifeless as your body the last time I saw you. Everything seems so lifeless anymore.
I can’t find another lover, not that I want one, but as soon as anyone walks in the door, the first thing they notice are the pictures of us everywhere and your jacket on the couch or your shoes by the door because I just can’t bear to move them, because you’ll be home soon, right?
I’m just stuck in denial. You’re still the only thing on my mind. I try and try again to go out and get my life back together, but as soon I come home, it’s still you all over again.