“As above, so below
Dismantled piece by piece, what’s left will not decease
As within, so without
The seasons bring relief
Let me live and die in peace”

Architects, Momento Mori

I wore a black dress to your funeral.

The same as the last one; recycled outfit only different faces. Though I guess that’s just how it goes now.

I originally bought it for a bridal party; a night out before a griends wedding. On some level I know it’s ironic but conciously perseverate only on how items of beginnings can somehow shift to memorialize ends. Those ends.

God help these ends.

I want you to know that when you leave, when you slip between the cracks of this place and the next I’ll be here. Standing or sitting somewhere in the back, out of sight and out of place. Eyes cast down, alone with your family and friends. I’ll stare at the floor boards if there are any, quietly pick at the skin by my thumbnail hoping to escape into the abyss of my mind even for a moment. Pull me away from this, these devastated people and worn faces. I’ll be there for them mostly.

For you too. The memories of you.

But I’m always going to wear the same black dress. It’s in my closet, all the way to the right, hung in the farthest darkest corner I could find. I know it’s there but I don’t remember it is there, you know? Hiding among the shadows and unworn forgotten things but always waiting, silently biding it’s time. It knows I need it. I’ll always hate it for that.

I bought it on sale. A sale within a sale within a sale. I think after all was said and done I paid nine dollars for it, which is good. I’d rather the fabric that has so much saddness woven through its stitches be inexpensive- no need to be frivolous on items I don’t care to have at all.

But wanting and needing are two separate monsters entirely.

I think that’s the worst part about catching a glimpse of it’s shape in my closet. Knowing that even if it rips or burns or shreds I’ll always need it. I can never escape that dark fabric, it’s silouette signifying the end of everything and the beginning of a life without. Fighting through the sway between that which is and that what once was. The lumps of sadness where everything else used to be. In between the memories and the warmth and the faded jeans and forgotten parties laughs smiles and all those old times.

All that I’m left with is this fucking black dress that I hate.

And a heavy heart.