the day after

My therapist told me I should try wearing two different socks to
help me get over my anxiety. She said
that my brain falls all too quickly into the trap of the unknown, and that
some things are just not meant for me to control. The socks
are supposed to act as a tangible reminder of this intangible lesson that I have had
no luck
in learning.
I remember, I got
a haircut the month I started seeing her. You had told me
you were seeing someone, too, and it pushed me to better myself
the same way. Maybe one day we
could cut out these middle men,
I thought.

In the time it took for my hair to grow out
Iíve felt what itís like to have everything and nothing. Time
is kept by counting minutes and hours, days and months. But
the markers arenít important. Itís the changes that occur
in between the markers that give time meaning. The short, silky hairs
that used to drip down the back of my neck now fit
comfortably in my messy bun. Minutes have stayed the same and hours
donít change from one to the next but my hair reminds me Iím not
who I was when this began.
The remnants of yesterdays coffee are congealing in the mug
on my desk; a dismal reminder of my doleful efforts to fashion together
the fragmented-me that remained.

The thoughts in my head are heavy-footed, their
reverberations shaking me to the core. So different,
from the way you handled my heart. So gentle,
itís delicate warmth burrowed into the palm of your hand. Iím so sad but still I
feel so lucky to have handed it to someone who recognized how
precious, how fragile, so tender
the way you handed it back
as unscathed as you possibly could.

I donít know where to go now but I know I
canít stay here; even in my hazy heartbreak mind I know
this is for the best. I climb back into bed
at the end of the first of many inconsolable days, only to look down and see
Iím wearing two different socks.
Written by theyrejustwords
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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