most nights i pray to him and beg for him to come visit me in my dreams.  just one last time that i need to see him so that i can say a proper goodbye.  i will not be a coward this time.

he doesn’t come.

the chatter amongst the adults results in a general consensus that he doesn’t come back to us in dreams day or night so that we should not have to prolong our grief.  it doesn’t work for me though, i need this. 

i find that i have become afraid of the dark again.  when i turn the last light off at night, i lay in bed feeling as if the void in my heart has swallowed my room.  i am sucked into a chasm of lost things and i become the most lonesome of those things. 

i am regressing back to my old habits, writing out my pain as if somehow propelling these emotions into words could make them more permanent, and less permanent in me.  it is said that the best art comes from the darkest of states.

i am there now: in a dark state of pensive solitude, a deep chasm of all things lost, at the very depths of the river styx. 

the one who can save me has already gone—and slowly, so have i.