Sometimes I hold resentment for the way life effortlessly goes on. There’s all this living taking place without you and it seems erroneous the way you’re not here, and still there’s all this sustenance.

Life may go on but your life added so much to mine that now mine seems only partial, only slightly alive. And it’s painful, living slightly alive. There’s no outward wounds for patching up and that seems to be the most cruel of all, because it needs attention, the way my stomach leaks in fragments from every time I agonized over you, torn in secret. It’s helpless the way I miss you in the quiet, when people are around, when life goes on. I miss you passed the breakdowns and past the shoulders to cry on. I miss you constantly to the point of embarrassment. I miss you past the “I’m so sorry,” and past memories. I miss you without even thinking, with my whole body, so much so that the vastness of it all created a limp.

And then I’m sorry for missing you like that. With so much doubt. The lack of trust creating a sort of paralysis. Can you feel it? My agony tearing at you? A life dependent on one that is past or above? Rest easy and forgive me. I’ll miss you always. But I’m told life goes on, past here, past this, past always.

Aubrey Lozano Cofield