Drip. Drip. Drip

It had been going on for a week. If I coud fix the faucet myself...

He was always good at those things. Faucet dripping? A/C broken? Bathroom drain clogged? He could fix it faster than he could break your heart. I just thought it would never be my heart.

I guess he didn't have a choice. I guess I have choice. But all I do is lay here on the bed we once layed on together. Listening to...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Before it was the two of us, it was just me. I never fixed anything, and left it the way it was. I could never bring myself to repair anything, it was always replace or run away. Run away from that dripping faucet, run away from that day, run away from...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It's constant. Like the narrative in your head, when you're trying to process a tragedy adn it feels like your thoughts are going faster than a train on a deadline. Or maybe your brain just shuts down. But whatever you're doing, you're not actually facing it. You're avoiding it. You're avoiding donating the clothes, you're avoiding talking to friends and family, you're avoiding breaking down. And if you actually stopped, stopped and looked at yourself, you could maybe see...

Drip. Drip. Drip.

But one day you accidentally catch a glance at yourself in the mirror in your desheveled house and see your body to match the state. The bun your hair was in is now everyone on your head like someone rubbed a balloon on it. Your eyes look like they haven't connected to someone in a thousand years. And your skin looks like dirty snow. So you decide to fix the faucet. And maybe fix...

Silence.