Not a trapeze artist

Sometimes the sadness is fleeting.

Others, it morphs into deep longing.

Each time I wake this way it is because I have dreamed the same dream: You were sleeping beside me.

I wake: You are not there.

You are not coming back.

Reality is as cold as this empty spot in my bed and as lonely as the deep impression in my heart that still feels like it was made to fit only you.

7 Comments on “Not a trapeze artist

  1. Oh, Jamie. I am so sorry. Sometimes, the best you can wish for is for the acute pain to turn into a dull, bearable ache. Love you.

  2. Pingback: Roger and Chaz Ebert: How “grown folks” love each other | Yvonne Taylor

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