I confess with red eyes hidden behind despair clenched fists, it is my fault she’s gone.
Life with her at my side was so easy, so pleasantly bearable. She sat with soft, pale brown eyes fixed on me as I would inscribe my emotions upon her heart. Her remarks, though not a common occurrence, were tasteful and gently delivered. On our countryside walks she stayed beside me, caught happily upon my arm.
I suppose I didn’t realize how fragile she was. And I bled her dry.
It shames my very soul to admit I don’t know when she left. I had grown so calloused to her presence that I couldn’t feel her absence. Even after, I should have sensed ill, but I assumed some mood had taken her and that a return would be swift in its coming.
I can’t say that I’ve truly dealt with her death – even now. It touches some numb, shocked part of me that I find buried horribly deep inside. I’ve cried for the loss of her, I walk our old paths in anguish.
I know with brutal clarity, that she is gone forever.
And it is my fault.