Poetry at the End of the World
At the risk of sounding hysterical, I have always found an inextricable link between love and death. The woman I love will be the hand I hold at the end of the world. And losing that hand, well, that feels like death in and of itself. I will never ever forget the moment I left her apartment for the final time. I had sat there, saying goodbye to the person who meant more to me than anyone before, and I had imagined the future where I moved in, and we started the next chapter. I never did a good job of holding back my full thoughts, but that was one I managed to keep inside. And when I walked into the street, well, that felt like death. *** I don’t know the best advice I’ve gotten on getting through the agonizing dissolution of the most significant non-familial relationship of my life. Most people call it a break-up. I can’t. I can’t say “ex” either. It feels too trivial to call that person my “ex.” For one, she’s not mine anymore. For another, I’ll only ever know her by the ...