I remember getting vibed by her mood. Oh, boy did I care. The slightest sigh. The slghtest look. Responsive. Willing. Laughing. Wanting.
Now, not so much. I used to miss the silliness, the laughing.
Now, I'm afraid I'll miss even that. Before I alwasys knew I was being sorry for myself. Then there was a time when I couldn't tell if I was feelling sorry for myself or us or her.
Now, I'm afraid, my fear is that it's done. I'm done. Because what if I am? I'm still breathing. As the Boss would say, I'm wounded. Not even dead.
What am I going to do?
What? Breath is not sustinance.