sometimes it's the simple things

[orleans]

no one can take the pain away
and it comes and goes and ebbs and flows

it sneaks up on you when you think you’re doing alright and then you say out loud, (to yourself of course): let’s make some spaghett.

“spaghett” -- a phrase not belonging to you
a phrase spoken by the one whom you just can’t seem to get over
a phrase you would give anything to hear them speak again

not even a phrase
but a word. a single fucking word.
and upon realization of that--your world tumbles, crumbles apart around you once again.

and through the tears and refreshed trauma
you think: i hope this spaghetti dinner is worth it--worth all the emotional turmoil it’s putting me through

and you’re no longer hungry--don’t feel like eating a damn thing.

and the drink you make doesn’t kill the pain fast enough, doesn’t numb the heart quick enough,
doesn’t stop the thought process nearly enough.

god, you miss them so much.

and you know you’ll eat the spaghetti anyway. might as well. look at all you’ve gone through just to make it.

whoever would have thought making spaghetti could be so heart-wrenchingly difficult?

you knew. there was never a doubt in your mind.