When my father died I repeated to myself over and over, It’s better to have loved and lost than it is to have never loved at all.

Sobbing, crying, blubbering. Thirteen.

When I lost my first boyfriend to excessive nonchalance, I repeated to myself, over and over, It’s better to have loved and lost than it is to have never loved at all.

Sobbing, crying, blubbering. Breaking out in stress-induced hives. Twenty.

When I lost my second boyfriend to two coasts, separate worlds and different generations, I repeated to myself, over and over, It’s better to have loved and lost than it is to have never loved at all.

Sobbing, crying, blubbering. Terrified, alone, suicidal. Twenty-four.

When I lost you, to things I have yet to understand, I am repeating to myself, over and over, It’s better to have loved and lost than it is to have never loved at all.

I am sobbing. I am crying. Blubbering. Confused, shaking. Self-destructive. Twenty-six.

Insomnia eats at my mind. My therapist says that my body is being devoured by the withdrawal from the separation of yours. My mind understands. My heart has not. I am shivering. Feverous. Shaking.

It takes two minutes after I wake up for all of me to remember. For one minute and fifty-nine seconds every morning I have to convince my mind it was not a bad dream. It is a depressive reality.

I am no longer yours, and you are no longer mine.

I walk into our old home. A graveyard of memories from our best hits. The phantoms of your hands follow every square inch. I remember the first day we moved in. The mattress on the floor of the master. Fucking in the foyer. The two staircases, the rooftop, the shower, the floors.

The billion-and-one kisses. The bear hugs. The fleeting touches. The hand holding. The Bhuddists believe we live many lifetimes. I want to spend a million of them under the blanket fort of crocheted stars. In the stillness of your arms, the assuredness of your forehead kisses.

I want to remember us by that night, and none of the ones after. I was blessed by the polarity of your love. Two suns in a singular universe. Fights and fucking that shook the neighborhood, quivering galaxies.

I have never felt such vivid tenderness, sweetness, such eager rawness. I have never felt so connected yet so distant.

I loved you to distraction. I wish we could’ve loved to absolution.

I have made a million-and-one mistakes, but I am so grateful for the us suspended under the blanket of stars. The Off-white rosé, the polaroid camera, the market charcuterie.

I have made a million-and-one mistakes, but it’s better to have loved and lost than it is to have never loved at all.