Ungodly

Standing on the altar of the kitchen table, reaching up to bite our names into the ceiling until they shimmered there like jagged stars. Our laughter felt so heavy in my chest, I feared my lungs might simply give way. Acting fearless, like we’d be the ones to defy the odds, before we reached the end of all our rope. We were so high on the idea of us, convinced the world would just stay out of our way. What lovely, tragic fools we were. We promised this house would hold us for a lifetime. We were lying to ourselves, and we didn't even know it. We treated time like a gift we’d never have to pay back.

The tea’s been sitting since eleven, turning cold inside the ceramic blue. I’m still anchored to this wooden chair in a time that doesn't belong to me and you. The clock is ticking like a warning, but the gears are grinding in my head. The kitchen’s just a graveyard now of all the "almosts" that we never said.

You were always better at the "gamble" than I was. You made it look so easy to just exist. But when the crash finally came and the floor dropped out, now I’m standing here with a thimble in a flood, wondering why I’m still dry.

My eyes linger on your face in this frame. I find myself reaching out, my fingertip brushing your jawline, watching as the ink begins to fail around your eyes. You're turning into a ghost right in my hands. Time is doing it to you, whether I’m ready to let go or not.

Your coat slumped against the pine, like a discarded skin. Breathe in the cedar. Your perfume still haunts the air—it’s starting to taste like a white lie. I tell myself I’m keeping it there in case you're late. But we both know the difference between "late" and "never." My hand wanders to your sleeve, tracing the hollow space where you used to be, letting the winter chill of the fabric seep into my skin. To lift that wool would be to break the seal on a tomb; And I’m not sure I’m ready for that trust. I’m not ready for the days to keep ending without you. 

The sun is rising. My joints are stiff from holding back the years since I first stepped into this widow’s dress. I traced the curves of the words you kept hidden. Feeling the ache in every place where the warmth used to find us but doesn't anymore.

If love is anything, it’s the postage on the letter of the last goodbye. I burn the pages softly and watch the edges curl and fall. But the truth is, the ash holds onto the memory of every line we ever wrote.

And it's ungodly—how I wake with your name on my lips, how the world outside stays exactly as it was. 

It's beautifully haunting how the silence learned to sound like you. I’m still here, cradling the pieces of a life we simply outgrew. The house kept breathing long after we were through. I find myself pressing my palms against the echoes in these rooms, just desperate to feel a spark of life in them again. It’s almost cruel, darling, how deeply I still ache for your touch. I suppose I’m still just tenderly loving everything you left in ruins.