raw

It has been some months now, since he left. Some months now since I could talk, really talk, like I used to. Yes, the absence has done its deed, it left an emptiness which cannot be filled by anything it seems, though I've tried.

The curtains are open, the curtains installed so long ago, before words became a disease in me. The light seeps in, no matter how thick the curtains are. Should I hold back from comparing him to light? Because they are so similar: when I falter, when I need the light at my darkest hour, when I stumble. it evades me.

But who can I tell.