Holding My Breath…

In the books, they don't tell you that three months later you'll still be hurting, still feeling the pain like your heart has been dropped into a juicer that's hell-bent on squeezing out all the happy juice.

They don't tell you that you'll spend hours staring into space thinking of what no longer is and wanting it back with every fiber of your being.

In the books, they don't tell you that you'll drag your right hand away from the temptation of calling and texting, time and time again.

They don't tell you that your nerves will fail you. Your hormones will be all over the place and your tear ducts will become irreparably porous.

In the books they don't tell you that you'll listen to all the love songs, watch all the romantic movies and read all the emotional books and bawl your eyes out each time.

They don't tell you that you'll never get over it. Three months in, five years, a million years. You will not.

In the books they don't tell you that your subconsciousness may never get the memo and that you'll wake up grasping at the shadow of a dream long gone.

They don't tell you that you'll find the rebound. Move to the next and another, searching for the tip of the iceberg that was him.

In the books, they don't tell you enough about the disaster that is a heartbreak.