No trains for us today.

* Followup to: Is There a Morning After Pill for this?

I am here and you are there.
Everything feels heavy.
I can’t breathe deep without crying.
I can’t decide which is more painful—holding my breath in or letting all my sadness out.

I keep myself strong most days. I feel, but I redirect. I focus on the good, on the positive, on everything that is in the right place. There is much to be grateful for in this life.

I came home from work early today. I closed the door quietly.

I did this to myself. I shut down all the distractions and got quiet long enough to feel. I even danced alone for a few minutes, spinning and turning myself inside out.

And when I stopped moving, I broke all apart.

I chose to breathe, to lean into the pain. Now anguish, like a wave, rolls through me. I am not running away. I am not pretending to be content. I am ripped open and alone.

I let the tears roll down my cheeks, drip and soak into the collar of my shirt. There are just too many to catch. I want to call you up, scream for you to come back here. Scream that I am done with all this time and space between us. Scream that I just can’t do this anymore.

Then I remember I have a choice. I choose to love you, to stand in relation, knowing with a full heart that I am here and you are there.

I could choose to let you go, but that is not a choice I will make.

I will not give up on this love. It is a painful, stinging, aching love. It is messy, beautiful and wild love. It is a mad, crazy run straight into yourself kind of love. This love drives my awareness deep, beyond the edges of all comfort.

My heart is not broken—it is blown wide open, raw and very much alive.

We are always alone. We are never alone. That is the paradox.

When we are the one person in a field, no one in sight, the sky still sees all of us. The sun shines on all of us. The pain I feel is in all of us.

The moon holds a place for us in the night sky. I stare up at the precise moment, pray the angle is just right. Can you feel me from 1200 miles away?

I choose to believe this love is possible.

I am on my way to you with every breath. I am right here in my room alone with every breath. That is the paradox.

Blink and a week goes by; sit alone in the dark mourning a life half over and half lived and the damn minutes crawl around like spiders in the dark corners of the mind.

I almost drove the hour to the train station just to watch it pull away, heading west. But I am too sharp for that. I know better. The idea seemed romantic but it’s futile and childish. I don’t have to drive all that way.

From here I see all the people moving in and out of the station. I see the lovers embrace before saying goodbye; he holds on just a moment longer than she does—followed by an awkward shifting of weight and glances as bodies slowly separate.

There is a train traveling west today, but I am not on this one.

You won’t make the drive to the station this time. You won’t pick me up in your arms in the lobby this time. I won’t wrap my legs around you and kiss you like a teenager this time. You won’t take my bags from me and carry them to the jeep this time. We won’t be smiling like madmen, walking in silence stopping every 20 feet to kiss deeply—not this time.

But I am here—still.
Holding my heart in with my two, small hands.
Waiting for the moon.
Choosing to breathe.

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Author: Jennifer Moore Mehmke

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: Jenn Moore Mehmke