Early Mornings, Early Nights

Not love lost, for that will forever remain.

The mornings are the worst. The mornings are the loneliest. Especially that moment when I have my hand on the door, that moment when I have to leave again for work. I hesitate, because I know something's missing. Something's not the same. I linger on for a while before finally stepping out of the room to leave. But my footfalls are now a little bit louder, and the closing of the door a little bit firmer. Just so I'll be noticed. Just so I can say, "I'm still here."

Work distracts me, and I feel better.

The nights are even better and I am thankful. There's still that distinct pang of pain that can only be sadness caused by a lost love. Not love lost, for that will remain. And I want it to. The nights are better, even with that pain, because the contact remains. The conversations remain. And the loving remains. The nights are better up until that point when I have to sleep, when I have to face the full force of the sadness once again. When my thoughts tell me that I have to leave in the morning a little bit earlier again, and at night, sleep a little bit earlier again.