the intimacy of loss



You know what people don’t tell you about?

The intimacy of tragedy.

The collapse into the lap of your lover; not in elated exertion…. but in grief.

The speechlessness; not of direct eye contact… but of downcast mutual understandings.

The timelessness; not of unrelenting focus…. but of sheer sadness.

The physical exhaust; not of lust…. but of depression.

The upholding; not to lofty heights….but when the ground is absent.

The hand squeezes; not confirming secrets… but in warning or recognition of the pain that is either coming or going.

The tears; not the hot ones in irrational fear of the loss of something abstract… but the cold, resigned, ones, shed upon that which is already gone.

The insomnia; not of a racing heart, but a stumbling spirit.

The lack of appetite; not from being emotionally overfed, but from a disinterest in the pettiness of the physical.

The infatuation; not with he who you’ve elevated with unrealistic expectation, but for he who has trudged his way to the top of your pedestal.

Life will never be fair, transparent or forthright. It’s just not in its nature. Nor am I foolish enough to foster such expectations. Loss, death, and pain – they are the inevitable valleys of the mountains I’ve chosen to climb. I get that. And shake hands, respectably, with life still. Yet as I surface, now, from tragedy, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing all the symptoms of a romance hangover. And I’m left with the hazy, bewildered, guess, that be it a partner (in which case it is for me) or Life itself, there is as much intimacy in sharing loss, as in sharing love.


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