I always knew that it would be me with dirt on my hands. I’m standing inside of a grave, six feet deep staring at the mess that I have made. I wish that turning back time was an option, anything to avoid burying the hope that I had left.

My grieving has only begun for you and you haven’t even gone yet. I’ve stained my jeans, wondering if instead I should lay here. Dying with whatever possibility we had of being something.

I glance around, what flowers should I place around this grave? Lilies? Tulips? My yard is beginning to look like a cemetery with all of these tombstones laying around. How many times do I have to die and be born again in order to get it right? I can no longer tell if this grave was meant for me or you.

I toss the shovel up, climbing out of the ground, and take a look at my work.

It was art, the way people destroy things and here I was, creating a monument out of nothing.

I didn’t get a goodbye and it took more out of me than digging the grave because now I have to mourn something that hasn’t died. Now I have to bury another piece of me that I’ll never get back.