I can't in 2023

I don’t know if I can do this. If I can keep going. How am I supposed to keep going?

I feel nothing. Nothing but the crushing weight of grief. Nothing but missing you. And the tears just keep coming.

I’m so confused. So fucking confused about everything. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t understand what I’m feeling. This heartache? It’s so much. It’s so goddamn much, why?

What if … what if what if what if … I’m driving myself mad with the what if’s and the what should have been’s. It’s gone. All gone. Gone gone.

How? Why?

Are you here? Somehow, are you still here with me? I beg you for signs, and when I feel them, I mock myself at the absurdity of it.

Life. Death.

That is all. How are we any more sublime and ethereal than any other organism on the planet? Do they have afterlives? The bug that hits my windshield, does he go to heaven or hell or valahalla or purgatory?

But that can’t be all. It can’t be. Because if that’s really all there is then … you’re gone. And I can’t accept that. But my brain is telling me it’s true and I’m only hurting myself if I believe you’re anywhere other than in the urn I picked out for you.

So I’m really confused. I can’t make sense of your death. I can’t make sense of your afterlife. I can’t make sense of myself. I would say that I must be going crazy, but wasn’t I already there?

If your ashes are in your urn then … you’re really not coming back. Are you?

Idk I guess maybe I thought I would fly home on Wednesday and surprise there you’d be to pick me up, like always. And you’d give me shit for tattooing your name on my arm because, its bad luck, Babes! And then we’d get home and roll a joint and snuggle up together and I would tell you about the horrible nightmare I had, and I would beg you to never ever leave me again, not even in my nightmares. And you would chuckle and say, Babes, the only way I’m leaving you is in a pine box …

And then you did. You did leave me in a pine box, Babes. You did.

I can’t do this without you. I can’t.