I have nothing to say except the sound of my own whimpers.

I have no words to give except the groans in my lungs.

I have no heart left to hold, except that which keeps it beating.

Each day, each hour… Lord, every painful hour.

Just make it thru one more and tomorrow will be better (so they say)

But the ache remains.

Tender, bleeding, sore, and an unpleasant reminder of the sound of your voice.

I wish it were different. I don’t understand.

Why did it need to be like this?

Where do I go from here? Besides up hill both ways.

When is relief coming?

When is the morning I wake up and you’re not the first I think of?

When does this part end?

Painfully Inquiring,

Me.