It’s funny how, when a relationship or a friendship first ends, it’s so painful. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to get through the day without crying a little, without the heavy, painful weight in your chest.
And years later, you look at a picture, maybe you run into the person or they send you an e-mail, and you want to feel the pain, because you want to remember what it felt like to care so fucking much about that person that, at one point in your life, they caused you such insurmountable pain.
But you can’t.
All you have are memories, and even those are fading.
It’s almost like you saw it all in a movie.
And the most profound part is, it wasn’t even good enough to watch again.
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
"Spring" -- Edna St. Vincent Millay