Everyone wants me to go on living without you. They expect me to get up on my feet and move like you haven’t left me. They think it will help.

He described it best to me, my widowed friend, ‘I just want to stop everyone in the street and tell them my wife died’

I can’t be anywhere people don’t know, it feels impossible that there’s a part of this world that hasn’t felt your loss.

I want to scream at them do you know what he did to me? He took everything from me.

You did, not just in dying but in keeping it secret for months, for not giving me the choice to walk at your side, for pushing me to something else. By hiding a part of yourself from me for 11 years. A part I could have loved but ultimately betrayed me and left me here hurting to the bones. There’s nothing left of me. I keep saying it but no one believes me. My ribs stick to my skin now, like my pain they’re both inside and out.

I can switch on that old self, the one that people love. He tells me ‘see you’re still funny P’. He doesn’t know that I turn it on so he doesn’t run away. That I don’t find any of it funny anymore. You took my funny bone too.

They expect me to be in here, so I’ll keep switching it on for them for as long as I can. Until I finally make it to the state of true nothingness with you. Let the animals and the weather spread me apart until there is truly nothing left of me and I’m the same on the outside as the in.

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