I wake up each morning and turn expecting him to be there. The empty bed mocks me, as I lay there gasping in pain.

The pain is so intense that it is a physical thing.

I'd heard that a heart could hurt so much that the body felt it. I never believed it though. It was too dramatic, too flamboyant, too unreal.

It just wasn't sensible.

But then, I had never expected to be loved as he had loved me, or to love as I loved him. Now all the sappy, romantic poems and ballads that I once scorned as overdone seem pallid.

I once thought that killing one's self because of a lost love was stupid too.

But I almost did it.

I wasn't thinking then, if I had I wouldn't have done what I did.

He wouldn't want me to die.

He would want me to live.

To be happy.

To love....

Someone else.

I can't.

At least not now.

Maybe someday, the pain will receed.

But for now, I keep going on.