There are nights I miss not just her but the version of myself that existed around her. He was funnier. Less defended. More certain. More willing to be dumb. Less tired in his soul. I’m still me, technically, but not uninterruptedly. Grief put a fault line through identity. Some of the old stuff survived on one side. Some didn’t. And it’s strange mourning a self that didn’t die but definitely got partially buried.
The Wall
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