I’m so tired of her being dead.
I know that’s kind of a stark naked statement but it’s true. I’m exhausted with missing her. Every day, all day, for the rest of my life. Her death a life sentence.
I carry her with me. I do. I know she’s not gone, but I’m weary of the physical absence. I’m tired of not hearing her voice or touching her hair or hugging her or messing with her cute little ears or counting her freckles or watching her grow bigger like her friends are. I’m so fucking exhausted by wondering what she would say or write or draw if she were here right now. I take my reprieves by living in the present moment and the knowledge that I’ll be with her again later. God, I’d better. There is no hell to me but one in which there is an afterlife and I can’t find her. I know in my soul there is not nothing, but if perchance there is nothing, so be it . I won’t have the awareness to know it. But if there is Something, then all I ask is that she be the first being I see.
Then I can finally get some rest.