The Death of You was the Death of Me

Who we are has nothing to do with our chemical makeup. We are what we’ve experienced when we weren’t alone. We are not ourselves without each other. From losing the closest friend—my ears when my mouth was busy, my mouth when my ears didn’t have the capacity to absorb anything—I gathered that I would never again be my whole self. That’s why my knees grew weak when I heard the news, why my heart is heavy as I give these gentle words a permanent home. A piece of my heart, a morsel of my brain, my thoughts, was missing and every necessary function that should happen couldn’t, because I lost a part of me. I will never be whole. A weakening of the tissues in my heart, the aching of a frozen winter night in my bones, an exhausted heat in the pit of my stomach; the weakening of my fingers to write these words. We are the people who make us feel noticed. We are the people who cause laughter at happiness’ grave, and we are the hands clutched together as our tears race each other to the floor. We are that conversation with your best friend when you felt, for once, that you deserved to be here. We are that moment when you look them in the eyes and you both grin, knowing all of this shit will eventually become only delicate memories.