Healing Time

Time is all I have to rely upon. Time. Exerting its extraordinary power in mysterious ways. Those who truly love me insist that it will pass. They claim to have been there. To have not only survived, but to have come out stronger, to have become wiser. They argue that even I have been here in the past. But they have never been here. Not even I have ever been here. HERE is where I am now. Here is where I don't want to be. Where I am missing you every breath of my sleepless nights. Every single second of my eternal days. Those same seconds that are supposed to be alleviating the ache, but all they seem to be doing is accentuating the pain. I have been told that I should find peace in myself. Make peace with myself. Think solely about myself. All myself wants is to disappear in your arms. My head leaning where it once belonged: that space between your strong shoulders and your muscular jaw. There, not here. There, soothed by the essence of your skin. Time will heal the bleeding wounds. Forget that the saviour of my bereavement is now the ticking companion for my tearful eyes. Time is all I can hold on to.