Poems of a Broken Man

Figuring Out How to Cry

Life would be a lot easier if I could figure out how to cry.

I used to do it all the time. At least once or twice a week at its peak. It used to be because of her, and even when she left, it was still because of her for days, weeks, months... and I'm fighting the urge to write years, because even though it feels like it, I know it hasn't been that long yet. It's barely been months.

I thought I was fine. A little sad now and then but that's normal for anybody I think. Then the lock-down happened...

That great cesspool of free time and somehow nothing to do. What felt like a holiday, but with no escape. What felt like a dream, but without a wake up alarm. What felt like a free pass to sleep-ins and no responsibilities, but felt like jail time with no utilities. And that's what drained me.

Before lock-down I was fine. I was good, all the time. I had met someone even. But now even she seems like a distant memory, and it's been weeks since we spoke. There were the others two, the two others you could call them. The tall one and the short one. But we're not talking about them this time. 

Anyway, things were good. Trust me on that, I was happy. Then everything went from good to lonely.

Happy turned to frightened of my self-will. Optimism to depression. That's when she crept back in. I don't even know how she does it. She's always there. Somewhere in the back of my mind, she is ALWAYS there. I can't get her out of my head again. I just want her attention. Her friendship. Her kindness. Her kisses. Her love. Her hugs. Her laughter. Her smiles. Her blushes. Her quirks and the reminder that all the good memories we shared weren't figments of my deluded and lonely imagination, and that they were in fact good memories. 

I don't know how to stop her. But I also don't know how to get her back.
Time, I've been told, is the best healer. But who controls time? Because I'd like to have a word with whomever that is...