What happens when those painfully beautiful love songs have a meaning, when you’ve given a face to the love they all sing about? What happens to your nights when he is no longer there to hold you? When you don’t feel his hard body on yours, his lips on your neck and his masculine musky smell is missing? You sleep now holding your pillow and on worse nights when sleep refuses you, you stay awake and remember. Memories never seem to leave, they linger around to mock you. You manage to survive days, then weeks. Some days are harder than others, sometimes it burns and you feel like ripping your own heart out of your chest so the hurting will stop. The growing hole, the emptiness increases. It’s worse when you think about it. “Why did he leave?” “Did he ever love me?” “Was I not enough?”. It’s silly you still remember how he would smile and his whole face would illuminate, lightening up your world.
So please don't say heartbreak is better than loneliness
It’s easy to miss what you never had.
To daydream of love. To know there is an emptiness . To remain hidden away deep within yourself for no one to hurt you. To wonder how someone could go on living without being loved, touched or desired. To cry to love songs every valentine’s day and remind yourself that you are as empty as you are alone.
Loneliness protects you.
What happens when you build your happiness in someone and the person leaves?
Yes, love is beautiful, but loneliness is good company.
There’s certain strength in loneliness. You can be your own happiness.
It isn’t the best feeling to be lonely. But to be lonely for someone…that is something I wouldn’t wish for anyone.
This is one of the poems Damola sent me.
I think there are varying degrees of sadness for everybody. But the kind that finds you, lying in bed, alone, save for the body pillow you clutch to, your own tangle of bones, skin and soul and a quilt from someone’s Grandma. The kind that hits right before you fall asleep, darkness warm and familiar, surrounding you as the final notes of an old love song play in your weary head, and the first tear falls, the kind that steals your breath away, and vice-grips your throat like a noose, and leaves you shivering beneath your quilt, the salt of your own eye-manufactured waterfall, settling on your skin, biting your bottom lip to remain quiet, and clinging to that body pillow, as you desperately imagine it to be the one person you’d be okay with seeing you like this; the one person that’s just out of reach. I think that kind, that is the loneliest kind of all.