which way to go

There wasn’t much doubt in my mind a few weeks ago. This was definitely it.

No other way.

But now I’m sick with that ache that rises straight out of the diaphragm and into the back of the throat. A sting that couldn’t be shaken by any manner of coughing. And I don’t even try to soothe the reminder into submission. It’s the evidence of leaving something good. Of letting go of people who’ve mixed themselves into my dreams – who I’ve held much too tightly – until each to each we tore the reality of the other into bits and scattered the remains into the air – inevitably racing in different directions.

I know it’s loneliness and the reeking of decisions made for all the wrong reasons that keeps me up late at night. Wishing there were a way for me to pace the floors. To make hushed phone calls or smoke a cigarette.

I haven’t even been writing all this time. My journal – filled with blank pages. And I wonder sometimes if that doesn’t stand as a metaphor for the life I’ve now chosen to protect. To serve. All blank pages and superficial scars.