Bittersweet

You used to wake up every morning with a smile on your face, and I'd know the minute I opened my eyes that it was because of me. You used to wake up with me before the sun and gaze intently at my reflection in the mirror while I brushed my teeth, as if I was the water that your body needed after days of clawing your way through the Sahara. You used to see me. You used to kiss my fingertips while simultaneously counting your blessings. You used to kiss my breath away, then turn pale in the face, replacing it with your own. You used to sing the gospel to me. With me. You used to hug me so hard that the broken pieces in me were one again. You used to stroke my hair gently, reaffirming me of my own worth while my head rested heavily in your lap and my tears puddled at your feet. You used to hum "I love you," and other sweet nothing's into my ear until I was lullabied to sleep. You used to be my rest. You used to dance around with me in the kitchen to Stevie Wonder, and I watched as your smile doubled in size when I sang off key. You used to smile at me. You used to bear your soul to me. So much so that I felt the need to cover your nakedness up with the velvet of my voice, reassuring you that no amount of past woes or filth you felt clung to you would ever make me love you any less.

Then, you woke up before me one morning. The nightmare I thought I dreamt of you walking through the bedroom door with bags drug behind you would be the last time I saw your silhouette. From that moment on, I would begin to hug myself, and when I'd let go, instead of feeling fixed, I'd hear another piece of my makings rattle against my hollow insides as it broke off into the place where good things in me go to die. I'd struggle to wake up before the sun, and when I did, realize it was no longer beautiful waiting and watching the sun peak over the horizon, close the blinds, and sleep until night. I'd try to sing the gospel and only wind up shouting curses to the ceiling. I'd try to stroke my own hair in order to bring myself rest, but when I pulled back my hand, discover that my hair was beginning to fall out from all of the stress of the heartbreak. I’d try to smile at my own reflection in the mirror, but end up watching the pieces shatter to the ground and reflect my inside. I'd try to dance around to our song, faking joy before my ankles broke and my voice fell flat. I'd try to make it on my own. To convince myself that you never existed, while still looking for you in the eyes of every lover that I found in the night time. I'd take deep breaths and try to replace the air that you extracted from my lungs with each step you took towards your beginning, but end up holding my breath, trying to meet my ending instead. I'd try to repeat the "I love you," and sweet nothings into my ear. I'd try to kiss my own breath away. I'd try to make me whole, but not without failing each and every attempt and realizing that no one could heal but break me as good as you used to. You are my bittersweet.