In the quiet moments, when I am alone and the night seeps in around the edges, I feel my heart crumble in my hands.
That goodbye, only days ago, it was the quietest heartbreak I have ever known. It wasn't deep or shattering, just an echo of cracks etched down to my foundations. I lied alone, curled up tight, and the darkness quietly flowed into the room, until the couch was an island in the murky water and my clothes were soaked in hopelessness. It's familiar.
There have been so many stories like it in my life, some looming like waves of death, others just another splinter in my chest, making all the old wounds ache.
In those moments, I don't long for any great love. I don't long to fall deep, or be swept up in dramatic romance. I would give all hope of those ballroom, garden and cathedral fantasies away, if I could just be held, safe and comforted. I don't fight heartbreak; it will happen with or without the struggle, and holding on will only ever make the shattering that much worse. But the lonely darkness that waits beyond is a terror that haunts every one of my nights.
An isolated death is the worst fate I can imagine.
