the promise of a better next time was just a poorly executed casualty.

if the angels watch our lives from above like a show, that would be the point in time they’d pin to be the best. the last. the part they replay to get a sense of soul tugging gaiety. they watch up until god violently rips us apart for years, before they go watch someone else. at least they have sympathy.

it’s a minor annoyance, like the mornings coffee rings we leave on my table that i won’t find until the next day, or your fingerprints all over my room. your guardian angel makes sure they stick out from the dust, making similar shapes to where your own once were. i’m sure they do it out of pity, or condolence.

they’ll turn into grave markers with your memory hovering above them, eventually. everything always does.

the part that they refuse to watch is slow and boring. but if they fast-forward through it, it’d go like this:

you’re gone, and i go home and angrily scrub the coffee ring from your cup off the table. i rid any reminder of you; a side effect of sudden loss, and a lack of knowing what else to do. then,

rejection. rejection, refusal to accept. more rejection. more anger. burying emotions. forgetting. remembering. forgetting. forgetting. burying more. forgetting. avoiding. avoiding. realization. digging up two graves. attempt to accept. heartbreak. avoiding. disguised nightmares. forgetting, remembering, trying to forget again, remembering in crashing waves. heartbreak.

it’s pathetic. and by that, i mean it’s sad as shit, if shit were sad. maybe shit’s more disappointing.

and we aren’t even done yet.



- f. e. celler
05.20.20


9 Kudos

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