Day one without you:
I burrow in schematics of electrical things. In trying to understand them, I hope I can forget you. I fail in both regards. I choke myself with ruggedized cables. I fail a third time.
Day two without you:
I surround myself with people who are not you. I remember that there are people who are not you. I eat a buffet lunch. I sob into a shakey sleep, fingers grasping the palm of my phone.
Day three without you:
The people still are not you. They are offensively not you. I salt my Caesar salad with tears at the table. I learn that grief is unappetising. I acknowledge that this is grief. I push my plate away. I hope I lose too much weight.
Day four without you:
I drive. I drive as far as I can. I have to stop to pee. I whisper promises to trinkets in shops. I abandon them before committing to the checkout. I delete your number. I switch off my phone.
Day five without you:
I try not to write about you. Nothing rhymes. I turn my phone back on. I reply to my mum’s messages. I wait for a text from an unknown number.