Rob Died


Rob died. Sometimes when I write those words I feel nothing.

Rob died. Other times it just stops me cold, and I feel an icy finger of anguish pressing into my chest.

Rob died. And yet other times it feels like I can’t go on.

Rob died. A wave of sadness, sometimes accompanied by an image and then a memory.

Rob died. Just staring at the words in disbelief, wanting so badly to delete them, knowing full well that it won’t change a damn thing.

Rob died. You fuckin’ idiot! I hate you for loving you so much!

Rob died. Two words that leave a disgusting taste in my mouth.

Rob died. Two words that take my breath away.

Rob died. I’m still not totally convinced he’s dead.

Rob died. It’s easier to write it than to say it.

Rob died. I need to quickly skip over this one so I can get to the next.

Rob died. Ah, that’s better.

Rob died. I lied. That’s not better at all.

Rob died. His laugh. His voice. His smell. His beautiful, beautiful face.

Rob died. When will the pain stop?

Rob died. When will the pain stop?

Rob died. When?

Rob died. Never.

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