There’s a dirty anxiousness that’s settled around my spirit, like a dust cloud raging a slow war against the blue skies. This has happened before, many times actually. I didn’t tell anyone then, and I don’t tell anyone now. Why would I? Who would even care?

Besides, I’m supposed to be fully composed and capable, at least in my role of “confident and zen professional woman/super-girlfriend.” It makes the most sense that this will remain between you and me, and the four shrinking walls.

It sits low, this anxiousness, and unsteady, way deep in my belly. Enough to feel desperately uncomfortable in my skin with every passing second; yes, second. I’m too nerved up to use the broader clock of minutes or hours. Instead, the measurement of time is short and acute, surgical in precision.

My breaths stay shallow, just a series of involuntary actions to cycle through the obligatory process of breathing in and breathing out. Reminding myself to breathe does little for the daunting task of transforming myself from full-on crisis mode into grounded and calm.

Before long, there’s a stretch of silence in the air, and it hangs heavy. The tears have made their appearance, as I knew they would. They sting a bit, pooling in the corners of my eyes, and I almost feel a bit of pride that I could sense them coming like some predict impending rainstorms.

The tears cause the breathing to come in quick, sharp gulps now, and I brace myself for the worst of it. The air around me gets tighter. It closes in while I wrap myself deeper inside my blanket. Open your eyes, the air seems to say. I frantically shake my head. Open your eyes, it says again, somewhat gentler.

A hand caresses my cheek, wiping away the complicated knot of pain, and brushes over my eyelids, finally resting on my forehead. I open my eyes and see. And finally take the deep breath that I’ve been needing to take. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m still right here.”

With you.

I want things like fighting over who steals the covers at night or who leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Probably a bit of irritation over finances will crop up, along with the question of when is the right time to have a baby. It’s only natural. In the evenings, we’ll watch Breaking Bad and you’ll stroke my hair. Sometimes, you’ll teach me a bit on the guitar. I’ll be a horrible student, but your patience will be boundless.

The minor quarrels will be resolved by 1-2 enthusiastic rounds of makeup sex, followed by the requisite post-coital cuddle session. The more serious ones will be focused on partnership and communication, and although we probably will experience a few disagreements, in the end, we will always smooth it out. In the small moments, we will craft a life together.

That’s all I want, just a normal couple life with you.

In my mind...

I pull my heart out of my chest. I look at it as it beats in my hand, strong yet fragile. Blood flows down my hand and makes a somewhat macabre-esque stain on the carpet.

I squeeze and feel my breath constrict. A sharp pain in my belly rises then falls swiftly. Less a flutter, more a karate kick, and tears unexpectedly gather in the corner of my eyes.

I reach up, mingling salty tears with blood, and smear my cheeks with it, newly christening myself a version of a modern warrior princess. The heart in my hand beats wildly, and I say a fond farewell to the last loving beats.

After a few more beats...

In a case fashioned from iron, I rest my gentle heart inside, sealing it shut. Slamming it. When it is done, I thrust my iron-clad heart back in my chest and go on. I go on to not just wage a war. But to win one.

“You’re going to be a Goddamn great writer someday. I just know it.”

He said that. The beautifully sweet Believer in me. And it sparked complete joy in my spirit, enough to carry me through.

After a seven month and three day gestation period, ladies and gentlemen, my book is finished.

Now I have the urge to hit backspace about a zillion times to eat up all the letters like a demented Pac-Man.

Because the beautifully sweet Believer has left.

White words. Black screen. Blue bubbles.

Pages and pages of texts from one heart to another.

Laying here on my stomach and scrolling through my phone.

Two hours of reading and still only up to October.

I rub my eyes, and pull the blanket up higher while the blizzard rages.

There it was, evidence of the falling and the staying.

Those were happy times. Tears stain my pink pillows, even the sheets too.

I want that again.

All of those words, all of that emotion, all of the memories. All the LOVE.

30 hours later and there are no new words to the text log.

My heart sinks. Maybe breaks. Possibly shatters.

I have been left, I think.

The collection of voices downstairs stirred through the vents and rose up the tower walls. Though they were careful to lower themselves to sotto voce level, the woman could make out a few words, enough to catch on. A fleeting thought of decorum entered her consciousness, and just as quickly flitted away. She was in no state to play the role of hostess.

By the widest window in the high tower, she sat like a stone. Her bright eyes were on the western horizon, fingers rubbing a long, greying curl back and forth between them, thinking of the last and final time she gave her heart and her body away. It wasn’t the memories that haunted her, but the possibilities, all now lost to her forever. There were no more chances. Time had simply run out.

The small pink box in the corner captured her attention. Someone had written in scroll with care: “For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.” With a scream of anguish, she finally let the tears flow freely into her lap, creating a puddle next to her empty womb.

High above the banks of the mighty grey river, cars weave and speed and twist through the course with all the fury of a tidal wave approaching. Even higher above on a hill, sits a little blue house with two big windows, standing witness like God’s own set of eyes.

Below, they charge themselves forward, freewheeling and high full of arrogance, as it so typically goes. Despite the cautionary signs marked at every quarter mile, warning of the dangers, it’s more of the same on a rainy December morning. And amid the outcries of disbelief and anguish, the little blue house stands by silently, as if saying, “I told you so.”

The crash is a fatal one. Into the cold, dark river it goes, they go. Mangled pieces of steel and blood, all wrapped together, sinking below the fast-moving current. A crying shame, really. Another unavoidable wreckage finding its final resting place at the bottom of the mighty grey river while the little blue house stands guard, watching it unfold.

Give me the mystery of shadows and stillness. In the night’s quiet, I can be life and death itself, naked and free. Here I’m nothing but an illuminated silhouette dancing against the backdrop of the changing moon, crying and laughing all in one breath.

Will you walk with me here, my bright, sweet Sun King? Be by my majestic side in the velvet quiet of night, and hold my hand, and my heart in your golden grip. Let me show you who I am under the silver light of the moon.

Fourteen days ago, we were wrapped in each other’s arms, the backdrop of the Hudson behind us. You were laying on your side next to me, long legs entwined with mine, lips moving toward mine. When I reached for your cheek with my fingertips, you closed your eyes and leaned into my hand. I didn’t tell you, maybe I should have, but it was the first time that I knew that I never wanted to be without you again. I can be without you, sure, but I don’t want to be. Fourteen days ago, and for eternity, you are mine.