Mindful
I think, maybe, that if things were different–things were normal–we could have survived.
We won’t, though. Not now.
“You’re always such a pessimist,” you say, laughing. But it’s true. I know this every time I find you crying, fresh holes by your elbows; I know this every time Mark calls me, because you’ve once again passed out on the street. I know this every time you show how broken you are.
And maybe, if I were more capable, it would work. But I’m not. I do what I can, but it’ll never be enough.
“I just feel so helpless,” you whisper, voice roughened by hours of sobbing. I don’t reply. I never reply. Even when you scream, and shout, and yell – the neighbours are used to it by now – I don’t answer. After all, what is there to say?
But even though it feels like each day burns a part of me–burns a part of you–it always feels worth it when you stand up in a moment of lucidness, take my hands and look me squarely in the eye as you say: “Don’t give up.”
And years later, when I visit your absurdly clean gravestone, I can proudly claim that I never did. I held on till the end. Because, in the end, that was what you needed, wasn’t it?
