I will pretend that you are fine. I will make believe that you exist in some other happier world where people are nicer, kinder.
I have succeeded in ultimately getting out of bed and getting on with life. But what good did it do? You're not here.
I didn't spend a whole night clutching the wooden boards underneath the mattress. I didn't cry all night begging with some un-nameable thing to keep you from harm. I was unable to persuade a certain someone to take your photos off FB. Is that why you didn't come back?
Should I be proud of myself at dealing with things the adult way? In not ritualising grief in false pretense and misdirected attempts to commemorate you, forever (such a long time) in my heart? Should I be proud of being heartless? Why does no-one and nothing ever prove to me conclusively that my superstitions are just that: superstitions: baseless.
Come back darling. Prove me wrong. I can't continue to break my heart into a million tiny pieces. I miss you, heart wrenchingly. I can't ignore the forlorn toy mouse.
And what of when I go back to our house? Your house? Your paw prints and scratch marks? all over the place. I love you i love you i love you.
I wish I'd exhaust my capacity for loving. It hurts. I love and I lose and I hurt. Everytime. Come back and let me love. I'll wait.