I don’t always feel her “with me,” and that truth hurts. I want to. God, I want to. I want the signs, the presence, the reassurance, the quiet certainty that love still has a way to move between worlds. Sometimes maybe I get close to that feeling. A lot of the time? Nothing. Just absence. And I hate how honest that is. Because the wanting itself becomes another source of pain. I’m not just grieving her. I’m grieving the lack of any reliable sense that she remains reachable in a meaningful way.
The Wall
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