Fly on, little wing

I sat outside a pub for a quiet drink and to read earlier.
And sat outside the other pub was someone who looked a lot like Matt.
Which was a bit…unsettling.
Because of course it wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Much though I wish I haven’t, I have a fair few crystal clear memories that remind me that it couldn’t be.
And probably PTSD.
But…what if it was?
But if it was, that would mean he’d come back, but he hadn’t come back to me…
And that would be just hideous…

Round and round the mind goes, spiralling downwards…

Of course it wasn’t him.
I don’t know what I’d have done if it had been, and yet he hadn’t come to me…
Nonetheless I wish it had been.
I’d still rather he was here, even if he didn’t want me anymore.
Even though I know how much he loved me.

Ain’t nothing rational about grieving…

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