Prelude to the First Twenty-Two Hours

This is not going to be easy. Two tiny hearts on my ring finger weigh as heavy as its giver’s scent on my hair. How many seas and sunsets have we seen? And how many more did we dream of waking up to? But it’s not meant to be. You and I shall face the morning after alone—that much was clear to me when my door closed with a final thud on midnight. The sound of a period. So final. So definite. It’s not going to be easy. My pillows have stopped giving me comfort. Even my blanket has gone terribly cold. Just when my mind starts to retire, it drizzles. Then the drizzling turns into rain rapping on my windowpane, shaking me awake again from my half-slumber. It’s not going to be easy, I think as I watch the window endure the incessant rapping of the rain . . . the pain. As the moon disappears, so does my hope of a bright morning.