The burn down my throat. The trickle left in the bottle. My body aches as though it is slowly being eroded away. Heartbeat filling my ears. The room whirls in a feverish light-headedness. My stomach turns and I double over. Everything that passed threw my lips in the past six hours pours back out; but the memories, my thoughts, they stay inside. I can feel my hair sticking to my forehead. I should be beyond rational thought but everything stays clear.

I find myself on the bed. My hand is pale and shaking on the pillow below me. Tears finally break out of my eyes. I cannot contain the screams; the wails that need to be freed. But I cannot. I am still trapped. Bound.

I cry for so long my head aches. Vomit still flavours my mouth. Body, still shaking. Tears, still falling.

Exhausted, my body finally collapses into a near comatose state. Dreams, cracked by the images of the swinging in every window. Running. Trapped. Surrounded. Just swinging. Watching the sway. Can’t escape. Everyone is swinging around me. Alone.

I wake to the sound of bird song. I feel my whole body freeze as if in rigor mortis; my brain swells so it pushes against the sides of my skull and my stomach clenches. Because it’s like a replica of the day. About a year ago, when I woke up earlier than normal. The sun shines through the blue-black curtains, making the room glow a soft navy colour, and the same shadows are cast on the floor. Maybe it’s even the same bird singing. But when I roll over there is no you. You are not singing softly to me as I sleep. You do not smile sleepily when you notice I am awake. You do not then carry on murmuring the song softly, do not brush a stray hair off my face. For some pointless reason I say it anyway, the same as I did, except now there are tears running down my face, chocking my words,

“I wish I could wake like this everyday.

To the sound of you song.

Out shining the birds.”

My perfect memory. It’s ruined now because you do not reply,

“I’ll be your dawn chorus. Always.”

The cemetery used to be a quiet escape. A calm sanctuary. This is the first time I’ve been here sober on my own after--. We always used to walk together, hand in hand. Amongst the dead I never felt so alive. The sky is still the exact cobalt blue. Just the right shade, beautiful and delicate; a safety blanket spread across the sky for the idyllic white clouds. Even the roses in my hand glare out too sharply. Now it just seems wrong. The luscious grass should be withered; the sky should have faded to a stony grey. Like me, the world should have curled in a corner and cried its insides out.

The ground is uneven beneath my feet. From the pebbles on the pathway to the hidden ditches and clumps of grass on the green.

The grave is small and unremarkable compared to the others. But it makes my heart falter and then pick up speed. The pain behind the memories, the loss behind the love.

“I miss you.”

I tell you every time I see you, drunk or sober, alone or in company. It’s the one thing I have to say. So you know, if you can hear me, how much I need you. How the wound your death made will never heal. How I will never get over you, never move on. I don’t want to. I just wish you had known how much I loved you. Maybe then you wouldn’t--.

“It’s lonely without you. I forgot how horrible it is to sleep alone. I took that small fraction of you for granted. And now it’s gone. I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t tell you how much I loved you every day. Sorry I didn’t fully appreciate how beautiful you were. The bed seems so huge. And I can’t sleep well. I wake up tired and just know that I had nightmares even if I can’t remember them in the morning. And I’m sorry I couldn’t make your pain go away. I should’ve done. I visit you every day. You will know that by now. But I like telling you. It makes me feel better.” Tears cling to my eyelashes and fall softly onto my cheeks. “And I always cry. You could always make me cry. I-. I find it so hard to talk to you. I wish you could hear me, but some small rational remainder of who I was knows you can’t. I still like to. And I don’t want to slowly stop over time. But at the same time I never want to come ever again. The bedroom is the worst room in the house. Because every night I lie there. And I can just see you hanging there above the bed, the bed I lie in. The bed where you used to hold me so tight, where we were the first time I told you that I loved you. I should’ve said it more. I’m sorry. So sorry, for so many things. I have a job interview today. I thought I’d come and see you first. Like some sort of fucked up, morbid good luck charm.” The tears come heavier and my breath becomes irregular. “Why did you have to do it? Was life so bad?” my voice softens to a whisper as I put the blood-red roses onto your grave. “Would you want me to join you? I don’t think I can. I’m just- just going to keep on living. I have to. Even if nothing is ever as good as it was. I’ll just- continue. I can’t give up.” And then I say it. What I haven’t said bluntly, meaningful, since that night-

I stand and dust dirt off my trousers. Turn. Walk away.

“See you tomorrow.”