It bubbles and pops

emitting a fume so foul now,

with skeletons; exo, endo, and fur?

Stir the pot again, and again.

Add in salt, parsley, and carrot.

Churn thrice over.

Agreed to be filling nonetheless.

Not for me, but for her.

She lives and breathes beneath us.

Whispering all the time.

A rustled coo bumbling among the moss.

For in tune, she never misses.

"Who," I asked

"Her."

A shiver sharp like a needle traveled up my back.

"She just wants to dance with you."

And we danced.

I laughed, tears streaming down my face until I jerked. Cold.

My life was off to a rocky start when I met him. These days it feels like I'd just gotten out of bed from a 15 year hang over. No effervescent numbing liquid or chlorophyll trips with Mary J; no I was too young for that. Now I reflect upon myself with a grim stature ready to either fling a fist enervated by stifled frustration or flee in a graceful silence outshined by the heavy clops of feet receding along the ground. I'm cold, not because of people, but because it's autumn. Hibernation is settling in and there won't be any need for excuses to cancel plans. It's going to snow and only get colder from here on throughout the month. However, it's in these dark and cold moments that we hope we can turn to a warmth in the night. A flicker in the dark; we don't have to talk, just buoy in the ebb of a soft presence. A glow not stifled but intensified to the point where I couldn't cower nor could I hide. Steam left my face in a reluctant rise as we laughed about the week and gossipped about old acquaintances; howling into the sky while forgetting about our breathe dancing in furls through still crisp air. And just like that it became fire, growing throughout my arms and into my hands; the locket carried more than his memory. It carried love.

Just give me a little bit. A little something to know that there is still a rose that blooms between us. Our avoidance is wiltering it, and I can't watch it fade anymore. My every waking moment these days has been me providing sunshine, and water to an already dying symbol of love, and it's tasking...I'm running out of supplies. So do this for me, just this one thing:

Act Like You Love Me

Act Like You Love Me so I can go on.

For the sake of my sanity, fake it for me. Until I know that there is no hope for us.

Perhaps this was how I was suppose to go. Years and years of learning about life, growing and living, only to be here now, falling. My life had lead to this. A baby born in 1998 was meant to die in 2019, if only my mother had known, if only I had known. I would've lived my life differently. I would've said, "Fuck it," to being scared. I would have put aside doubt in myself to really live a little. Although, perhaps, this was all my life was suppose to be. I had lived the life etched out for me since my inception. Perhaps I could've have changed a thing. I find it miraculous how millions of what-ifs and possilities can race through my mind before I hit the ground.

From the perspective of the experienced eye, I guess you could say that having something to loose means you care so deeply for something that it has instilled a fear in you. A fear so strong it has changed your ways, and fabricated a whole new you that you never expected to exist. And this loss can come from all walks of life. Perhaps you'll begin to observe the most miniscule of things in your efforts to take in the beauty of the world, before your breath escapes for the last time. Maybe your every waking moment will be to revel in his laughter as it reverberates through and around you. As fear holds potential truth to the fact that that might as well have been the last time you see his green eyes disappear behind eyelids crinkled in laughter, or the last time that this sun will ever shine on your face. A luxury denied by very many.

So I guess my answer is that loss creates fear, but not fear of living, fear of living without.

And if loss has already happened, then, hopefully, you have memories that resonate for the rest of your lifetime.