It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. It hurts more than when I broke my toe or all the times I’ve contused or burned my fingers. It’s worse than when I tripped and slammed my nose onto the edge of a concrete step. Worse than the largest, pulsing blisters on my fingers from guitar strings or my lips being cut open after a long concert series. More intense than the most painful cramps. And more agony than last summer when I walked more than a half mile downhill on a gravel road barefoot while the ground burnt. And I can’t stop it.
I can’t put a band-aid on this wound. I can’t just clean it, wrap it in gauze, and tape it up. There’s no bracing it and no relief. It’s just the phantom pain of something not there.
It’s the pain of missing you.
And I don’t know how much longer I can handle it.
Not being there with you. Not lying against you as we drift off to sleep. Not feeling you breathe beside me. Waking up and you not being there. I can’t grab your hand as I walk down the hall. I can’t reach that far. I can’t get to you. And it hurts. It just fucking hurts.
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