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Shards of Heartbreak


Emma Meade

Once you were a voice on the phone. Then you were the warmth in my bed. Now you’re a whisper on the wind, a faded touch, a burnt out candle; my burnt out candle; my heartache; my sorrow. Because I am in love … and nothing is more painful.

The mere touch of your hand intertwined with mine, the strain on my toes to reach your lips, the feel of your slender fingers caressing my chin; each day I yearn, I pray, I cry but nothing will bring you back to me. Not until another season passes can I count again the days we spend together on less than the amount of my fingers and toes. Yet not even my tears can count the number of ways I love you.

I clench my hands with the force of my despair, unaware of the blood seeping through my tightly enclosed fingers. But it does not pain me. Not there.

I am surrounded by people, yet still I am all alone. Still the air crushes me as though the walls are caving in. Still my heart calls out your name, but the only time you answer is in my sleep.

My head keeps spinning – not with the euphoric sense of ecstasy I exploit in your presence – but with the emptiness your absence forces me to painfully endure each day. And it makes me ponder – do I miss you or the way you made me feel? Because being with you was the happiest time of my life. And since you’ve been gone I’ve spiralled downhill faster than the tears down my cheeks, and in more ways. If I ever needed you, it’s now.

But you’re not here.

Uncertainty takes a hold of me after my head leaves the pillow, an uncontrollable feeling of unjustified hatred filling my entire body like liquid fire running through my veins.

Where are you?


You leave me with this carefully fabricated damage to my once treasured, innocent, innermost possession – and then just leave?!

It’s true … there is a fine line between pleasure and pain, and an even finer line yet between love and hate.

Is it right to call something so painful love?

The loneliest place in the world does not have a single name. It is the lack of your voice on the phone. It is the cool, empty space in my bed. It is everywhere I am that you’re not, be that the next room or the next state.

It would be ignorant to say I cannot live without you. But I cannot love life and live love if you’re not here with me.

How long will this last? How long will I last? I’m hanging on by a thread, how much longer until it breaks? Until I break? Until you realise you’re sick of me and want out? How long until our eyes start to wander, ‘til our curiousity reaches breaking point, ‘til it hits us that our love is up against the toughest opponent – distance – and that all attempts of battle are futile?

Because although I am in love and nothing is more painful, to let go would be to die and in death one cannot even dream.

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