Well of Tears Remain

It must have been a mistake

All I did was revisit old threads

Scroll through old messages

Well, to be honest, I searched out your name

I just wanted to know if you unblocked me

I got my answer,

I am still dead to you.

I even read the last message I sent to you. .

Then I went to Instagram and scrolled through your pictures.

The still painful reminder that our memories have been erased.

It’s a death I know too well

But a death I refuse to accept.

I was telling someone about you the other day.

I said…

How do they do it? To have love in her bossom and mine. And to just decide a death. A death that doesn’t kill neither love. How do they do it?

It was scary because I added that

I know she still loves me and I love her still.

Except, it didn’t feel pathetic. It felt human. Or at least, I did. I am okay even if it’s a delusion that even though you never carried my baby. You carried my love and nurtured it like your child.

You were a mother to love

A mother of love

A mother, loved.

Yet, you chose death.

You chose to mortify,

You treated our memories

As heirs to your new love

And you gave them the medieval treatment

No blood with a claim sniffs life.

Except I wasn’t Blood.

We merely shared memories.

I saw that one picture at the cabin.

The one where you celebrated me

But truly I was secondary to your bestie

Who happened to share my birthdate.

I don’t know how I feel about it.

You kept those images

But they remind me now,

That even when you loved me.

I was merely a scented candle.

You lit me for the pictures

To turn out visible

You lit me to provide drama

To the stability of your sisterhood.

Well, I have finally changed your name.

My phone will no longer remember you as your dad’s daughter

But as your lover’s wife.

It felt clear. It felt right. It felt strange.

I have no more sorrow. I am like a grieving widow who is out of tears, biologically.

I leave with a whisper:

My love, never dies. It does decay.