I’m not really sure that anything feels worse than loss.
I’ll speak for myself. I’m not sure that anything feels worse to me than loss of another, worse still, when I know I was complicit in the losing.
It’s a fog I can’t find my way out of, the heat of a fever on a bed pillow, tossing and turning at 4:30 a.m. when wake-up is at 5:15.
It’s knowing “If I just had not” when knowing both that I had and that “If” as a word (and more even a thought) has been a poison to more than lead and strychnine combined.
It’s love lost and wasted, by malignant cells, or malignant words, or sometimes sheer mystery. It’s days of tears welled up stinging eyes and nights spent waking from dreams rife with different outcomes.
But from small mercies come large salvations and the sun still rises in the morning.