You hold my heart (still)

nights.

(No one ever said moving on is a straight line, or that it's easy. See, I fall back sometimes too. It's part of the process. Embrace it.)

I'm just sitting here on the floor, with my back to the bed, numb. My tears aren't even flowing anymore. I'm not sure they did though. Everything in my head was a huge mess. I may be overly dramatic, but right now, all I am able to think of is how... How do I continue? How do I get back into the game? Hell, how do I get up the floor?
Questions and more questions. Unanswered, flowing through my mind, causing stress, or normally they would. I don't bother. The answers will come, hopefully, when it's time for them to come. Or so I was told, since I was a little girl.

The lights are off and the window open. I can hear the traffic from down below on the street. Cars and trams and people. Lots and lots of them, doing their daily routines. Or rather nightly if we want to be realistic.

I'm not sure how long I've been sitting here, without moving, staring out the window and gazing over the lights of the city. Beautiful and calming. They advertise New York as 'the city that never sleeps but always dreams'. Now I can understand what they meant.

Slowly, my posture isn't comfortable anymore. The floor feels too cold and the side of the bed too hard. Everything is overwhelmingly too much. The quiet inside the room is killing me slowly and the sounds of the traffic irritates. So unbearable, that it makes my head hurt and I want to jump up and leave. But where? I don't know. Truly. Just away, far away from here. My skin burns and the the clothes rub it as they touch the surface. My breathing becomes heavy and quick, almost hysterical. The feelings inside of me grow to a condition where I can't handle it anymore.

After all this time I feel a single teardrop rolling down my left cheek and dropping on my shirt. Then another. And another from my right eye. I catch myself sitting there only somewhat consciously. My shirt is nearly soaking wet from all the tears. But my crying isn't getting hysterical or messy, just the tears running down my face.

If someone was watching from afar, this scene might even look peaceful and wonderful. Me, sitting in the dark, looking out of the window by the sounds of the streets at night. No loud whining, no loud sobbing.

No regrets, no heartbreak, no betrayal. Just the overwhelming sense of being alive.