Each passing day brings me further away from you. There's little consolation for me, and everyday as time slips past me, I can only think about what could have been. And even though the weight of physical death has now lifted (somewhat), there is the meta physical death, and with it, the burden of abandonment pain that never ceases.
I would like to say that this is not up to me. I would like to distance myself from such masochism. That I would choose pain over relief. But who else could be tasked with this, but me? That I choose to inflict so much agony on a body that is already so scarred and bloodied?
How does it make sense?