Not Making This Up

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There's a strange comfort in pain,

a quiet ache in my chest, not a boast.

It whispers, "You're not making this up."

They were real, and the love hasn't gone to ghost.


Folks say, "Focus on the happy times,"

like sunshine can erase a scar.

But those times, they slice and sting,

a phantom touch, a voice so far.


A laugh that echoes, almost seen,

then gone, leaving a hollow space.

The pain that follows is a beast,

but also a ghost of a loving embrace.


Proof it wasn't a dream, or lie,

that something touched and changed within.

Fingerprints left on who I am,

even after the joyful beginning of them did end.


I don't crave this ache, this heavy dread,

it greets me with the morning light.

It tucks me in at day's end too,

a constant companion through the night.


Yet, a sliver of me knows, if it fled,

the chain would snap, the anchor gone.

Losing them again, a deeper wound,

a world where their love for me never shone.


So I let it stay, this bitter guest,

in every corner, every thought.

It does its work, this painful task,

proof of a battle fought and fought.


Changed, shaped, and deeply loved,

a mark they left, indelible and bold.

This quiet part of grief unspoken,

a story seldom, if ever, told.


The pain, a chain though sharp and thin,

the only link to what used to be.

I hold it close, though it cuts my hand,

because it's a part of them inside of me.


Until I learn to live anew,

without this chain to hold so tight,

I breathe it in, this constant ache,

because it says, "You loved with all your might."

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