My one, my only-living

The concept is old, I know. I'm exhausted after having marched to this tired old beat for so long; this worn anthem has been playing on repeat for years now. Do I talk about it too much, I wonder? Or do I neglect to pay it its due respect quite well enough? Because if you don't already know, you must now: that not a moment of any day goes by without the stark knowledge and heartache of this thing pulsing through the back of my mind to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

My one, my only-living.

The knowing — it's there with me in the depths of my sadness, and it's there atop the heights of my joy. It's etched itself into the lines of my face, and it's set up camp just beneath the thin layers of my skin.

I'm lonely for her. I feel the absence of the things she'll never have. The sting is markedly duller now, of course and thank god, but it'll never be gone. I live alongside it, it lives in me and it rests its weight on my weary shoulders. 

How long is grief meant to last? I don't wonder anymore.