Excerpt from a Book I will Never Write

147

"How are you doing?"
The question kind of stops you. Because you're okay. Your world is still spinning and you're still smiling and you're okay. But sometimes you're not okay. Not even one little bit. And you don't really sleep at nights because you're bed is as empty as your arms. And there's a space on your wall where his photo used to hang. And sometimes you can't even eat because he's gone and the sick feeling in your stomach just becomes a permanent part of you. And when you kiss someone new their lips are wrong and their hands don't tug your hair and their body doesn't feel quit right beneath your wandering hands. And sometimes you cry and you don't think you'll ever stop. But you don't say that. They don't want to hear that. You just smile as say,
"I'm okay, I guess."
Even when I am okay, I'm not.