38 | Psychopomp Magazine
somehow. I’ve always believed that love means everything, that it’s something we only recognize in times of crisis. But when I tell you the news, you don’t cry. You do not fall into my arms. You are eating a sandwich. You shake your head.
I want to do something solemn like light a candle, but we don’t have any candles in the apartment. So I use my lighter. In the orange halo of light, I tell the creature about death.
You’re getting older now, I say, It’s time you learn these things. Nobody wants it, but it’s the way it goes. It’s like taking turns. I will die someday too. I need somebody to know. The creature blinks and sucks on his toes. In the next room, I hear you turning on the shower.
Do you remember when we couldn’t fall asleep without touching? That night, I wake up to the claws against my lower back. The bright light from the streetlamp outside almost makes it look like day.
When I wake the apartment is the same, minus you. You didn’t take anything with you. I pick the crumpled slivers of the CD discs and set them out on the floor in different shapes. The sliver of light from the window brings them back to life, a rainbow from some other universe.
The hardest part of letting someone go is knowing they’re better off without you. You just have to believe it’s for the best.
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posted: 4 days ago