It's a cold, wrenching pain in my gut that warms as it rises, finally pouring warm and relentless from sleep-gummed eyes not quite blinking back the frosty light of the new day. This is how I wake up, now. This is my new morning.
I want nothing more than to talk to you, to listen to you, to sit silent with you. My own grief is fierce and warns of nothing before it strikes. The minute-to-minute misery, the beast sitting atop me proud and immovable to steal my breath, my enthusiasm, my appetite, this is not the sting of my own loss but the shade of your own.
Knowing you hurt and can't turn to me fills me with slow, syrupy shame.
I did nothing I know of to warrant the disapproval of your friends and family which has caused so much stress for you, with their judgmental 'worry.' It is easy for them to speak out of turn, who have been all their lives pampered and know nothing of the crevasses, who have spent no time in life's deep, dark places. It is easy for them to worry of wrong directions who have never stepped for a moment from the safe, well-swept path laid out for them.
It is easy for them to fear I might drag you there, into that vast space of endless night. It seems so reasonable to suggest that the way to save yourself is to push me away, to push away this reckless and self-destructive influence, malicious, manipulative, tainted by the gloom of those caverns. All they see is that I've been in that hole before. It matters nothing that I know the way out.
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