Punched in the sternum. Lightly bruised, subtly winded. Belly dropped, sunken. Tell yourself, Life is good. Believe it. It is. Was it better before?
Perhaps this vacuous sadness is merely the echo, the footprint of blinding permanence. We don’t believe anything is permanent, except life. Loss can’t be permanent. But silly child, you’ve got it all mixed up.
Some things are here now. But all things must go.
You can claw back and cling, anyone will understand. It won’t do, though. One cannot eat a memory.
Friends help. Love helps. Tomorrow this feeling will evolve into inspiration.