Sleeves

I cut the sleeves off the shirt. I did it impulsively. I wore it, and felt nothing. It was his, you know, his shirt. And he had been gone for a while. Weeks. I don't know how I did it -- wearing his shirt around like he never existed. He did exist. He was most real, vivid, in that time. And he was really gone. And I walked around the place with his shirt on. Everything was a bit strange that night. I worked at that new place. I enjoyed it, but it all seemed so surreal coming home. Being so alone. I lit candles, and paced around. I washed dishes, and some of the flames burnt out in the meantime, so i lit them again, and dripped wax on the floor. I sat there, staring ahead. He was looking at palm trees, I was sure. I was staring at a couch. How different, the things that we were seeing. On that day, I was very thankful. Thankful, but it really took every bit of strength to smile, to laugh, even to say anything at all. But I made it that day, every day I have survived since. Mornings were tough, getting up and facing that void. When would things change? And yet things were always changing. Always. I was so tired. Maybe tomorrow would be a great day. I hoped. I prayed, mercy.