The Church of Sunday Night in November

your departure seems like it has to be final this time and i can’t stop crying. i feel like the ground has opened up below me, that everything is going to stay dark and cold, and what is the point of such love and warmth—the feeling i had hoped for (prayed for) for such a long time–only to have it go away again. the loneliness is a lot worse now, worse than it was before, because i thought we were each other’s reward for all our sadness, all the struggle before we found each other. you’re the last person i should be saying it to, but it’s your embrace i want (all that would make me feel better) and i’m an inconsolable small person right now. an inconsolable small person with a new manicure because I thought I would make love to you with these new short purple nails. i press send here but it’s always to you that the lost love is heedlessly, helplessly traveling. the pain, jesus, the pain is terrible. will this venus retrograde never end.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy