Each and Every

And it's only at night that I remember it; all those feelings, each and every one. The way we stumbled, intoxicated, into one another. The breathless words you released in a dark closet, too soon and too much. Gravel under the tires, loud silence, hands clasped, a heavy presence in a moving vehicle. The warmth of skin on skin. The comfort of a genuine laugh, stomach aching, short of breath, watery eyes. The place where my head belonged. The perfect spaces for my fingers. Alive while asleep, we always started so close and ended up so far away. We always did. The heaviest emptiness in my chest, I would have thought the pain was a heart attack if I wasn't convinced that my heart had imploded. Two knees on asphalt, head in two hands, two car lights fading in the distance. Eyelids holding back tears like flood gates, a headache incurable by ibuprofen. Endless sleep, the heaviest sleep, the only escape. A busy mind, neverending, a permanent migraine. The most painful hope, a knife that constantly stabs your heart. The worst part, you hold the knife, no one else. You cause your own pain. Self-hatred, self-doubt, pointless days. Desperation; you just want to feel something else, anything else other than the constant sting of realization. Boredom and silence are not your friends, they only serve as constant reminders of the similarity between the emptiness both inside and outside of yourself. An uncomfortable comfort. A sad awkwardness. A devastating similarity, a heartbreaking recognition of what happiness feels like... Only for it to be taken again, and you recognize that feeling as well. A ticking time bomb that you are well aware of but too afraid to prepare for or acknowledge. It explodes as you implode and you don't even mind. And maybe you're grateful for that last undescribable shot of pure pain, because as you cave inward you bring along all those other feelings. The ones you only remember at night. Each and every, one.